Justified
by Vende and Aranel
Summary: How can you choose between duty and happiness? Does the sacrifice of one justify the gain of the other?
1. Elusion

**_Chapter One_****   
Elusion**   
_The best lack all conviction, while the worst   
Are full of passionate intensity._   
-William Butler Yeats

He was gone again.

Draco Malfoy was sprawled elegantly across his seat, taking in the classroom through sharp, discerning silver eyes. Harry Potter, once again, was not in attendance. Draco arched a blond eyebrow while a slight frown tugged at the corners of his lips. He cursed the Gryffindor mentally, resenting how _his_ world seemed to revolve around the Boy Who Lived. Draco thought back to the last prefect's meeting.

_"Have you noticed that Harry is not attending classes?" Granger's worried voice filled the meeting room._

_"I fail to see how the private business of Potter is our concern, Granger," he had said, icing the disgust in his voice coldly._

_"It _is_ our concern!" Granger shot back shrilly. A manic gleam shone from her worried eyes and her voice rose higher. "Things are going wrong at the Ministry: Fudge has been assassinated, a former Death Eater is now in power, and Dumbledore isn't here to set things right!"_

_Draco sneered at her. "So when Dumbledore is out of commission, you turn to Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived to Ditch Classes?"_

_"The circumstances happening in the world are too coincidental," Granger responded, her eyes wide with fear. "The incumbent was murdered and the Muggleborns' only ally is incapacitated. It can only mean that You-Know-Who is planning something. And I'm worried about Harry. This isn't like him at all. I don't want him to do something rash."_

_"Because if he did, then no one would be around to save your pathetic little lives? Is that it?" Draco retorted. Murmurs ran like wildfire around the table. Draco suppressed a desire to roll his eyes at their dependence upon Harry Potter, a mere boy like Draco, who didn't have the balls to come to class because he couldn't cope with the stresses of the world._

_Draco sighed loudly. "Well, what is the general consensus?" The question was difficult for Draco to ask, he much preferred giving orders._

_It was difficult for him to moderate the ensuing discussion. There were those who thought that Potter's absences should be tolerated because he was their Hero, the One Who Would Save Them. A small few, Draco amongst them, thought that Potter should be treated as any other student and punished accordingly._

In the end, the decision had been to watch Potter for a week, and if he missed classes again, in a noticeable pattern, it was his responsibility as Head Boy to find him. The end of the week was drawing nearer and the green-eyed Gryffindor had attended at the most two classes, according to the reports of the prefects.

Draco found it hard to concentrate on Professor Binns's words. He had long given up trying to take notes; it was too cold for his hands to properly manipulate the quill. The new headmistress, McGonagall, was stingy with the school Heating Charms as well as the traditionally lavish meals. Draco suspected she feared the difficult times ahead, now that men like his father had their world in the palms of their death-like hands, able to crush it with a single motion.

Students had brought warmer robes to accommodate the rationing, but somehow the cold always seeped through them, chilling the very marrow of Draco's bones. Especially in Binns's classroom. Drafts flowed in through the walls, making it difficult to think about the subject at hand, which was Binns's treatise on the history of dueling. Apparently Muggles strove to emulate dueling in their sport of fencing, but Draco's attention for such things was minimal, even if he had had a full stomach to help him think properly.

Rather than let the cold saturate his thoughts, Draco let them stray onto a subject that had always incensed him: the so-called Hero of Hogwarts. Draco had a pretty good inkling about why that smarmy git was skipping his classes. The damn prick was afraid. Afraid of what people expected of him. Draco smirked; this only added to his convictions that the famous Harry Potter was merely a lucky seventeen-year-old boy who had the exceeding good fortune to be able to survive as long as he did.

As Binns's ploughed on about the development of the wand, Draco remembered a time when this admittance of defeat from the Boy Who Lived would have amused him more than anything. Yet this triumph lacked any satisfaction or gratification for it did not provide the euphoria he had imagined. His enjoyment of Potter's defeat was dulled by the fact it wasn't he, Draco Malfoy, who had pulled Potter to his knees. He had wanted to beat him, to surpass him, to be better, and to prove to the world that simply surviving was not cause enough for hero-worship. But the surrender of his enemy had left Draco feeling curiously flat. It wasn't worth defeating someone who had already given up. It lessened his triumph, reduced his justification for Potter-baiting to a pile of ashes. He would hardly admit it, nor could he scarcely believe it, but he longed for the old Harry Potter, the one who had been ready to deal out insults, rather than this taciturn adolescent who so often refused to meet anyone's eyes.

A few moments after Draco saw that the History of Magic classroom was empty that he realized that class was dismissed. Draco collected his books, quills, and parchment and quickly swept out of Binns's class, striving to avoid any prefects on his way to the Slytherin common room. Unfortunately, he ran straight into McGonagall, who fixed him with a stern glare.

"I've been searching for you, Mr. Malfoy," she said. Draco knew what she would ask of him next.

"Professor, I have---"

Draco was startled when the Headmistress suddenly placed her thin hand on his shoulder. He was surprised at her wiry strength, which offered no room for argument.

"Find him," she said simply. Draco was taken aback by how weary and worn McGonagall suddenly appeared.

There was no need to ask for whom. Draco knew whom it was he had to find. He nodded solemnly, knowing it was unwise to let his displeasure show to the severe headmistress. She did not turn a blind eye to the antics of her students as Dumbledore had often done, which inspired a grudging respect in Draco for the careworn woman.

McGonagall released him and turned to continue on her way, noticing with a sharp eye everything that happened around her, despite the weight of Hogwarts School bearing down on her now frail shoulders.

Draco sighed and decided to go search for the Boy Who Moped._ Now if I were a sulky, cowardly, famous Gryffindor with severe responsibility issues, where would I go?_

Draco decided to take a leaf out of Potter's book and skip his next class (Divination) to go look for him. He passed students on their way to their classes, noting the somber mood, as though they were afraid to smile in fear that the Dark Lord would strike them down for having the audacity to be happy. He turned when he heard the door to a notoriously empty classroom scrape open and a pretty, brown-haired seventh year Gryffindor girl emerged looking decidedly shifty. Glancing briefly into the classroom, he could have sworn he saw a tall, dark (and somewhat scruffy in a I've-just-been-in-battle sort of way) man sheathing a sword. Startled, he looked again, only to see an empty classroom.

_That's it,_ Draco thought. _Of course. Potter would most likely be in an abandoned classroom. Bloody predictable. Typical of Gryffindors, I suppose._

**************************************************

Harry Potter sat atop an unused desk, surrounded by various magazines and newspapers, all with pictures of him trying to hide behind the edges as the he was mobbed by press agents.

Harry wasn't reading the accompanying articles, which blared titles such as "Where is the Boy Who Lived?", "Saviour Wanted: Apply Within," "Conspiracy? Who Will Unravel the Dumbledore/Fudge Mystery?", and "You-Know-Who on the Rise? The Wizarding World Asks Harry Potter."

Harry stared at a classroom wall, remembering the night during his first year when he found the Mirror of Erised. The deepest desire of his childhood had been to find the family he had never known, to experience warmth and love that he had been deprived of. That wish had long since disappeared, perhaps because he knew that Ron's family could never be his, nor the love of beautiful but distant Cho.

Harry stared into space, seeing the Mirror in his mind's eye, high as the ceiling, with an ornate gold frame and the inscription _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_ carved around the top. Without seeing it again, Harry knew what image would be reflected back. It would show a somewhat thin seventeen-year-old boy with his mother's green eyes, his father's mop of messy black hair, and a scar-less forehead standing in the thick of a crowd, unnoticed and anonymous.

The deepest desire of Harry Potter's heart was not to be Harry Potter.

"Great place for some private wanking, I suppose, but really Potter, you have no sense of imagination when it comes to things like these."

Harry whirled around in the empty classroom. It was Malfoy, leaning gracefully against the doorframe with his arms crossed, smirking in his usual manner. Harry narrowed his eyes.

"How about the third floor corridor? Or behind the statue of Oggred the Ugly? I might recommend Greenhouse Six myself; it has all those lovely plants that offer a very convenient hiding place."

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" Harry asked, his eyes dark with suspicion, guilt, and resentment. Harry crossed his arms, mirroring the blonde boy's stance from his position on the desk.

"Unfortunately, I have been sent to fetch your less-than-smartly-tailoured arse back to your classes, which I hear you have been noticeably absent from lately." Malfoy's eye fell on the press articles. "But I see that you've found a better way to pass your time. Catching up on your fanmail, I suppose." A Harry from the _Daily Prophet_ article made a face and made a decidedly rude gesture at Malfoy. The Slytherin uncrossed his arms and approached the boy sitting on top of the unused desks.

"So?" Harry asked angrily. "So what if I've been answering my fanmail? It's better than sitting in Binns's class."

"Potter, you really are an appallingly bad liar. I wager you've been sitting here for the past hour, debating whether or not you should return to class."

Harry set his jaw in a stubborn line.

"And?"

Malfoy shrugged his thin shoulders elegantly. "I could care less whether or not you're no longer the wizarding world's poster child; in fact, I'd be delighted to take you off your pedestal and expose you for the weak, sniveling prat you are. I'm simply the herald."

Harry's face contorted in an expression of disgust. "You've always been 'just the herald', Malfoy," he retorted bitterly, turning back to stare at the wall. "It figures; you've never had an idea of your own. Always in your father's shadow, never thinking for yourself. You're still his little lackey, aren't you, Malfoy?"

The words hung in the air between them, and for once Malfoy did not make a response right away. Harry heard him take a step backward in shock and prayed that Malfoy would leave and let him alone.

There was silence. Harry could sense the other boy's silver glare boring holes into his back. Presently, Malfoy spoke.

"Listen, Potter, I don't give a fuck what you do with your time. Really." Malfoy's voice was hard with steely resolve. "You could sit here all day and stare at walls if it were up to me, but it isn't. Fallen hero or not, McGonagall has insisted that you attend class, and as Head Boy, the job of dragging you back to them was given to me. Granger would have done it, but she has such a blindside when it comes to you. So it's me, Potter. Now get your sorry, moping self off that desk; you _will_ be escorted to class."

Harry flew off the desk and turned to face Malfoy, his green eyes glittering across the dim room.

"You think you can force me? _You?_" Harry laughed humourlessly, his eyes flashing emerald knives that cut the distance between them to shreds. Malfoy gazed at him with a studiously blank expression. "You don't know _anything_, do you, Malfoy?"

The tables had turned since their first meeting; it was Harry who was now making Malfoy feel as though he were the stranger in Harry's tortured world.

_In the back of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length._

_"Hello," said the boy, "Hogwarts, too?"_

_"Yes," said Harry._

_"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."_

_Harry was strongly reminded of Dudley's self-absorbed manner, although this boy appeared to have been born and bred to his imperious carriage whereas Harry's cousin had merely been spoiled fat._

_"Have _you_ got your own broom?" the boy went on._

_"No," said Harry._

_"Play Quidditch at all?"_

_"No," Harry said again, wondering what on earth Quidditch could be and feeling lost in the face of this boy so obviously raised in the magical world._

_"_I_ do--- Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"_

_"No," said Harry, feeling more stupid by the minute._

If Malfoy had felt a sense of superiority and triumph then, it would have been quelled by the fury now in Harry's eyes.

A flash of something passed between the two boys that Harry could not discern. He wanted to look away, but not before Malfoy. The other boy merely stared back, a pink tinge around his ears. Harry fought a losing battle with himself; he wanted to break the tension between the Head Boy and himself, but didn't want to admit defeat. Malfoy would never back down; it was that damned pride of his.

"Let's go, Potter." Malfoy's voice had lost its edge. Harry relaxed. Under that unruffled exterior, Harry sensed that Malfoy was just as uncomfortable as he was feeling at the moment. "Someone, somewhere, has missed your breathtaking visage in his or her class."

Then Malfoy turned abruptly, not glancing back to see whether or not Harry was going to follow him out the door. Harry debated for a brief moment if he should stay or go, but soon made the decision to leave and return to class.

***********************************************

Hermione was sitting in Arithmancy when she was summoned from class by McGonagall.

"I need to speak with Miss Granger," she heard the Headmistress whisper to Professor Vector after she had walked into their class. Vector glanced over to where the Head Girl was sitting and frowned slightly, but nodded his consent. Hermione met McGonagall's eyes and the Headmistress inclined her head slightly, indicating that Hermione was to follow her out of class.

Reluctant to miss Vector's lecture on the significance of birthdates on a person's life, but unwilling to disobey her mentor, Hermione rose from her seat and quietly left class, wishing away the inquisitive stares that followed her out of the room.

"Miss Granger, I have some news that might be a bit troubling for you," McGonagall said, once they had reached a secluded talking place. Instantly Hermione was alarmed. Had something happened to Harry? Hermione's mind drifted back to the prefect's meeting the week before and worried that Harry had done something rash.

"I have a task I would like you to undertake, a project, if you will, with Professor Snape. It may infringe upon for academic studies, and I understand that that may bother you but---"

Hermione released the breath she hadn't realized she had been holding.

"No, indeed, Professor McGonagall," she said. "I don't mind. May I ask what this is about?" Hermione was relieved that McGonagall's news hadn't been about Harry. Hermione's nerves were constantly on edge; she was waiting for the axe to drop concerning her best friend. Everyday she awoke, afraid that his disappearance from classes had a real significance, afraid that she would find him dead on the Quidditch pitch, with a message that read "With Love, from Voldemort," written in Harry's entrails.

McGonagall heaved a tired sigh and Hermione couldn't help but notice the dark circles underneath the Headmistress's eyes and the intruding white hairs upon her black head.

"It is a complex potion that requires some time, research, and dedication. Professor Snape needs assistance in developing a potion for...for Professor Dumbledore. And being as you are the best Potions student at Hogwarts, we have elected you to be his assistant after class."

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath. Professor Dumbledore? Hermione was under the impression that the aged professor was beyond any magical aid, ever since...ever since that horrible attack the summer before school opened.

"When would you like me to start, Professor?" she asked, feeling a stirring of hope for the first time in months.

"Next week, at the earliest. Most likely by next Friday as Professor Snape needs some more time to develop the potion. Be in the dungeon by three o'clock Friday afternoon, Miss Granger until otherwise notified."

"Yes, ma'am," Hermione said. A little sliver of curiousity wormed itself into her mind about just what Professors McGonagall and Snape knew about Dumbledore's condition that she did not.

"Miss Granger," McGonagall said, surprising Hermione by placing a frail hand upon her shoulder. "I hope you do realize the...pressures that we have been put under. I would greatly appreciate it if you did not mention this to anyone else." There was a warning in the older woman's eyes that Hermione did not quite understand. Seeing her student's puzzled expression, McGonagall continued apprehensively. "Miss Granger, it saddens me to inform you that the world might not always be as it seems. Those you feel you can trust may not, in fact, be your allies. I can only hope that you will use your better discretion about this endeavour."

The answer dawned upon Hermione. McGonagall, seeing as she had nothing more to say, patted her protégée gently on the shoulder and then turned to return to Dumbledore's office to resume her Headmistress duties.

As Hermione walked back to Arithmancy, she pondered about the persons McGonagall had warned her against. Certainly there were many new teachers this year who were not intimate with McGonagall, nor did they often approve of her methods. They were employed by the Ministry, against the wishes of the Headmistress. Yet they seemed innocuous enough, teaching their subject with competence to the students under their tutelage.

Hermione passed Professor Rochester on the way to class. He smiled at her and nodded his head in greeting, which she returned. He was the new Transfiguration teacher, chosen by the Ministry to take over McGonagall's teaching position when she rose to run the school. Hermione shivered slightly from the cold.

Rochester, truth be told, frightened Hermione a bit. She knew that he was a friend of the current Minister _pro tem_, Eleazar Zabini, who had assumed Fudge's offices after the previous Minister was killed by an extensive use of the Cruciatus Curse. A deranged outpatient from St. Mungo's Hospital of Magical Maladies had been blamed for the old Minister's death, and when the case had closed, the patient returned to St. Mungo's, where he had reportedly committed suicide a week later.

Rochester, like Lupin, seemed to have the easy ability to enthrall his classes, yet unlike Lupin, whom Hermione had inherently trusted, Rochester was a bit of a mystery. His appearance frightened Hermione slightly. He had a scar cutting a slash above his right eye, which gave him a permanent scowl, crooked teeth, and a rough, brusque manner. He was also extremely thin, causing his skin to hang upon his sharp cheekbones like paper. Yet in all other respects, he was perfectly presentable, always sharply dressed in conservative robes with his grey hair cropped closely, and the faint aroma of cigarette smoke hanging about his person.

Hermione shivered again, this time from a prickling sense of foreboding. Despite his casual interaction with his students (he was affectionately referred to as "Chester" by most Slytherins), there was a slightly sinister air about Professor Rochester that bothered Hermione.

When she returned to Arithmancy, the class had already ended and emptied, save for one person. Draco Malfoy sat in her seat, his long legs crossed elegantly on her desk, his polished shoes resting on her meticulous notes. He was smirking at her with his habitual expression of contempt. Hermione suppressed her disgust and dislike as she addressed the boy.

"What is it, Malfoy?"

"McGonagall charged me to inform you that we have another prefects' meeting tomorrow in the fourth floor classroom," the boy drawled. "We're going to discuss your little boyfriend. Apparently he's missed all but two classes this week and we are going to decide the appropriate course of action."

"The appropriate course of action?" Hermione asked, her cheeks flushing slightly at the mention of "her little boyfriend."

"Yes, punishment, no doubt," Malfoy answered, not failing to notice her change in complexion. "It will either be hot oil or the rack. Personally I prefer the rack, but we can't all have what we want." Hermione's eyes widened.

"It will most likely be detention if he is to punished at all," she replied.

Malfoy snorted. "Listen, Granger, I don't know how a piece of Mudblood filth like you got to be Head Girl, considering your biased stance concerning your boy toy, but if this sort of behaviour continues any longer, Potter will surely have to be disciplined."

She was about to plead for leniency on Harry's case, but Malfoy stopped her before she could speak her piece.

"Look, Granger," he said, sitting up straight, now not bothering to mask the disgust on his face. "I know what you'd say. He's Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Well, I might remind you that while Harry may be the Boy Who Has Been Extremely Lucky Dodging Curses, the fact remains that he is still only a boy. You might care to remember that, Granger. He's a mere boy, who's subject to the same laws of gravity as the rest of us, dammit!"

Taken off guard by his passionate outburst, Hermione stepped back. Malfoy took this opportunity to collect himself and rose, brushing past her hard in the process. Her notes fluttered softly to the floor, bearing the stamp of Malfoy's footprint.

Malfoy turned at the door. "Oh, and I forgot. Chester is going to head the meeting tomorrow; McGonagall's off to London for the week to confer with the Ministry." And with that, he left.

*********************************************

He missed Hagrid.

Harry stood on the Quidditch pitch, his Firebolt in hand, forgetting his original intention to fly as the sight of the half-giant's forlorn hut caught his eye. He scanned the field; it was entirely empty, save for a few tattered banners that flapped feebly in the wind, signaling an approaching storm.

When Zabini had taken office after Fudge's death the previous summer, he effectively dismantled all programs and classes at Hogwarts that he had deemed "frivolous." Such activities as Quidditch and social Balls were considered to take away attention from students that otherwise would be devoted to magical studies.

Harry glanced at the derelict pen adjacent to Hagrid's cottage, which had housed what Harry and the other students privately called monsters, but what Hagrid had affectionately referred to as pets. The magical creatures were gone, replaced by the now-discarded Quidditch hoops and equipment. Care of Magical Creatures was one of the classes Zabini had pronounced superfluous, as well as the post of gamekeeper. Harry thought that Zabini's actions were more than a little suspicious concerning his friend; prejudice against the giants was at its peak ever since Voldemort had risen again.

_Superfluous is a relative term,_ thought Harry. Having Quidditch abolished and Hagrid fired left Hogwarts School devoid of anything worthwhile, so to Harry, attending classes seemed superfluous.

Harry glanced at the broomstick in his hand; he intended to fly again, although that had been banned under the Ministry's new regime. He longed to leave the ground, to leave the demands impressed upon him by the public, and to leave the role of Saviour behind him.

"If you want to fly, you might wait for a more appropriate time."

This time, Harry did not turn around. He knew the voice of the person standing behind him, and he knew his intent.

"Are you implying that I should return to class?" Harry asked, still staring at the open pitch.

"I was merely going to suggest that you wait until the weather cleared," the voice replied, cool with amusement. "But now that you mention it..."

"Fuck off, Malfoy."

"Listen, Potter," the Head Boy said, "If you're thick enough to believe that your absences from class would go unnoticed or unpunished, think again."

Harry didn't respond.

"Look Potter, I'm onto your game," Malfoy's voice was harsh. Harry started. "You think that skipping class, failing your exams, and sneaking out past hours will take you off _Witch Weekly's_ 50 Most Likely To Save the World list, I'm sorry to inform you that it won't. But if you also think that your status as the Boy Who Lived will exempt you from retribution, you are also wrong."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, knowing perfectly well what Malfoy meant.

"Are you really that slow?" the other boy scoffed. "You have detention. Or, to put it in terms you might understand: you are in trouble. Or perhaps 'serious shit' might more accurately describe the extent of your situation."

Harry showed no sign of having heard Malfoy. He heard the Slytherin sigh.

"If you care to come, detention will be held in Rochester's classroom next Friday afternoon around three o'clock. Have fun flying. Hope you fall and break your neck, Potter, maybe _then_ you'll be on _Witch Weekly's_ list of Men Who Failed to Follow Through Due to Nasty Flying Accidents."

Harry felt, rather than heard the blond Slytherin leave him on the abandoned Quidditch field watching the storm clouds gather. 


	2. Cadmean Victory

**_Chapter Two_****   
Cadmean Victory**   
_Consequens victoriam est prius experiens aculeum concedentis._

He wasn't coming.

It was an encouraging thought. If Potter didn't show up, not only would Draco be excused from watching a sulking, sullen Gryffindor for the better part of the afternoon, more stringent punishments could be introduced. Draco grinned, his catlike, feral smile glowing along with his hair in the gloom of Rochester's classroom. Oh yes. Potter would play right into his vengeful hands. He thought back to the prefect's meeting, where many had objected to punishing their idol, humanizing their Hero.

_"Listen. The appropriate thing in this situation is to punish him. We risk the reputation of this institution by letting Potter get away with his mini-rebellion." Draco's imperious voice carried across the fourth floor classroom the prefects used for meetings. He was a natural Head Boy, comfortable in his authority, absolute in his demands. Draco never settled for second-best, from himself, or from anyone else. His silver eyes met each student in turn, and finally drifted over to Professor Rochester's. The slim professor leaned carelessly across the table in his usual manner._

_"I would have to agree with the Head Boy in this case. Mr. Potter is not more worthy of special treatment than any other." Draco looked triumphantly over at Granger, who remarked indignantly:_

_"I don't think any of you understand Harry at all. He isn't one to shirk his responsibilities without due cause. He must be plotting his actions against You-Know-Who."_

_"Oh, _capital_, Granger. I suppose you would suggest we withdraw Potter from all his regular courses and replace them with Devising Really Cunning Ways to Defeat Evil Wizard Overlords? No matter that he's actually using his newly-acquired free time to stare at walls in a typical delinquent adolescent fashion. No. He is _obviously_ scheming," Draco scoffed. "Honestly, Granger. Open those mud-clouded eyes and see the scared little boy in front of you." Granger opened her mouth to protest but Professor Rochester interrupted her._

_"I think it's settled then." He ignored Granger's sputtering protests. "Now, Mr. Malfoy, who ought to administer Mr. Potter's detention?"_

_The other prefects followed Rochester's example and paid no heed to the incredulous Head Girl. They swallowed their own concerns and began to offer suggestions._

_"It's unfortunate there is currently no Head of Gryffindor House," commented a Ravenclaw prefect. He continued, "The obvious choice is the Head Boy or Head Girl."_

_"I don't believe our Head Girl is an appropriate choice," said a tall, chestnut-haired Hufflepuff female, looking sideways at Granger._

_"I second that motion," Draco drawled, sneering at Granger._

_Arguments broke out from all sides of the room. The general consensus was that Potter should receive detention, but the bone of contention was over who the proctor should be. McGonagall was ruled out immediately; she was in London. Rochester declined. Granger was advocating herself, although few listened to her, owing to her soft spot for her best friend._

_"No one has really suggested the Head Boy," remarked a blonde Slytherin prefect. She glanced at Draco. Draco returned her gaze, a small smirk touching the side of his mouth._

_"It's logical that he could administer detention," added another Ravenclaw. She ran her fingers through her dark hair. "Mr. Malfoy has no biases concerning Harry Potter."_

_"Biases?" Granger leaped to her feet. "You say that I am ineligible because of my relationship to Harry. I say that Malfoy is not qualified, on the basis of _his_ relationship to Mr. Potter!"_

_More arguments erupted after Granger's remark._

_"Enough!" Rochester barked. Draco jumped slightly. The fourth-floor classroom quieted almost immediately. "Thank you. So far the only feasible suggestion I have heard is that Mr. Malfoy should administer Mr. Potter's detention. All in favour of this motion, say 'Aye.'"_

_A chorus of "ayes" could be heard. Draco glanced at Granger, noting with satisfaction that she appeared grumpy and sullen. She glared back at him, and stubbornly kept her mouth shut._

_"All opposed, say 'nay.'"_

_A few scattered "nays" went across the room._

_"It appears as though the 'ayes' have it," Rochester said. He turned to the Head Boy. "Will you take the position?"_

_Draco accepted, albeit reluctantly. He could have found better ways to spend his time than watching Potter mope about all afternoon. However, he nodded his consent._

_"No further motions?" Draco asked the assembled prefects. Hearing no replies, he dismissed them._

_"Meeting adjourned."_

Thinking back, it had been fortunate Rochester was there; Draco gleefully recalled the appalled expression on Granger's face when her opinions were ignored and lost amidst the other prefects' suggestions. The stupid Mudblood couldn't bear not to be in the center of attention, could not bear to be wrong, especially concerning her wonderful Potter. Draco smiled to himself; he would relish telling her how Potter had skivved off detention. He would tell her and savour the anguish on her face as he tore her misconceptions about her speccy little boyfriend to shreds.

The squeak of hinges opening interrupted Draco's reverie, and he swung around to face the doorway as shafts of light streamed in from the corridor. Silhouetted in the brightness was a thin figure he recognized.

Potter.

Fuck.

Draco had been entirely certain the other boy would be absent.

"So you decided to grace me with your illustrious presence, Potter?" Draco asked coolly. "I'm flattered."

The other boy said nothing, but stared at Draco standing in the middle of Rochester's gloomy classroom. Draco stared back, his calm composure belying the fluttering of his heart. The silence between the two boys was strangely charged.

Unable to stand the tension any longer, Draco broke their connection with a sigh. He resigned himself to a wasted evening. The Head Boy swaggered over to his charge.

"I have all sorts of fun planned for this afternoon; care to hear the schedule?"

Potter continued to stare at Draco in an unresolved silence. Draco felt the urge to shift uncomfortably, but brushed it aside. A Malfoy was never uncomfortable, much less shifty.

"Well, first thing, you are to tidy up my hair-care products. More specifically, alphabetise them. The list begins at Amazing Aristotle's All-Day Hold Hair Gel, and continues, I believe, to Quirky Quentin's Quality Conditioner. Next we will make an abrupt about-face to..."

"Alphabetise your what?" Harry spluttered.

"You heard me. My hair-care products. You are to organise them; how else could I get this magnificent head of hair? Anyway, next we're off to Professor Snape's---"

"You can't make me do that."

"Pardon?" Draco asked, raising his eyebrow in mock innocence.

"Organise your...hair-care products," Potter choked out with great difficulty. A look that was a cross between disgust and utter disbelief crossed his face.

"This is _detention_, Potter, not An Amusing Afternoon with the Amazingly Attractive Head Boy." Draco forged ahead. "Where was I? Oh yes. Professor Snape needs a hand in categorising his closet."

Potter snorted. "How? From Black to Blacker to Blackest?"

Draco was nonplussed.

"Precisely. Organisation is very important to some of us, you know."

Potter arched his own eyebrow.

"In addition," Draco continued, "Filch has requested some assistance in dusting his bookshelves. I hear he has a very intriguing pin-up collection. Really, Potter, you should consider yourself lucky."

"You can't be serious."

"What if I am?" Draco's eyes glittered with enjoyment.

"You can't...you just can't," Potter retorted.

Draco heaved an exaggerated sigh. "If you insist, Potter, we will head up to the trophy room."

"Polishing?" said the other boy, in a somewhat hopeful tone.

"What else do you do in a trophy room?" A strange looked flitted across Draco's face before it quickly disappeared. "Wait, don't answer that. Anyway, now you can see first hand how many times Slytherin has claimed the House Cup. I expect all the trophies to be shining testaments to our glory by the end of the afternoon." The Head Boy pushed past Potter brusquely and led the way to the room.

********************************************

She didn't like him. 

She didn't like him, but she could admire him.

Hermione could admire the Potions master's attention to detail, his meticulous work habits, his efficiency grading essays. She could admire his intelligence; Potions was perhaps the only magical discipline that required a scientific, empirical method. Hermione appreciated the subject; it required no magical ability, merely knowledge, knowledge of herbs and their properties.

But even as she admired him, her dislike of Professor Snape remained rooted in her psyche. It was difficult to weed out Harry's prejudice from her mind, difficult to pluck out a grudging respect for the man from the tangled vines of her soul Hermione stood before the door, staring at its handle, fighting an internal struggle. Her dislike and respect for Snape raged in her mind, stamping their battles upon her delicate features. Hermione took a deep breath, composed herself, and reached for the doorknob.

The door flew open before Hermione could touch it. She couldn't conceal a surprised squeak as she came face-to-face with the Potions master himself. His obsidian eyes flicked to her face, dark and inscrutable.

"Miss Granger," Snape said, "You are late."

"I'm sorry, sir." Hermione ducked past him into the dungeon. She felt uncomfortable; he was standing at the threshhold, scrutinizing her slight figure, silent and unmoving. She kept her head averted, seemingly preoccupied with the collection of ingredients on Snape's desk.

_What is he doing?_ Hermione thought, annoyed, and unable to prevent her nose from wrinkling with distaste. I'm here to _help_ him, not to stand here, in an attempt to be interested in beetle-legs.

The slamming of the door startled Hermione into a slight jump. She looked up, expecting to see him walking towards her, but Snape was gone.

Hermione was puzzled as to where Snape had disappeared and not a little frustrated. She was giving up _her_ time, her _precious, valuable_ time to help her least favourite teacher make a potion for Dumbledore.

Hermione was still in doubt about the exact nature of her project. Little was revealed about the Headmaster's condition; only that he was incapacitated. _The Daily Prophet_ was surprisingly close-mouthed about the whole affair, reporting only that the aged wizard was stricken with a mysterious illness that "magical aid was yet able to cure." Hermione had expected a scathing expose from Rita Skeeter a few weeks following the announcement, but ever since the new Ministry rose to power, the muckraker's quill had been silent. Hermione suspected that perhaps Skeeter's Quick-Quotes Quill had been silenced forever.

Hermione was at a bit of a loss; Snape had left her alone in the Potions classroom with no verbal instructions. Did he expect her to have the ingredients ready? Had he already developed the potion? Hermione's eyes fell upon the various parchments scattered across Snape's desk, all written in Snape's cramped but careful script.

A few years ago, Hermione would never have dared to riffle through Snape's papers. Yet those days were gone; her regard for the rules had bled away slowly after her friendship with Ron and Harry. She slowly approached the desk.

There were notes on potions ingredients scribbled on loose sheets of parchment, the genesis of various potions, and graded essays, nothing that would enlighten Hermione as to Dumbledore's condition.

As she shuffled the papers back into some semblance of their original order, she spied an official Hogwarts letter amidst the quills, parchment, and ink. She left the other papers alone and picked the letter up, noting with surprise that it was in McGonagall's neat handwriting.

She scanned the letter, dated some time late summer.

_August 2, 1997_

_Severus-----_

_Undoubtedly you have heard about the unfortunate events that occurred not six weeks ago; very little has been printed in _The Daily Prophet_ since. I fear that much is being concealed from us, from the reporters, from the public._

_I was only just able to see our Headmaster at St. Mungo's yesterday. You will not believe the troubles I have had with our new Ministry concerning Albus. They keep insisting that he is fine, that there is no doubt he will recover, and that it was my duty as Deputy Headmistress to keep Hogwarts open. I was at last allowed to see him briefly, after much finagling with the Department of Wizarding Security._

_Severus, I do believe we may be alone._

_Albus is alive, yet he is unable to rise from his bed. I do not know what curse has afflicted him; he cannot speak, yet I know he is still with us by the twinkle in his eyes._

_The row I raised with our new Minister I will not repeat here. Zabini denies it, but I believe that he intended to run Hogwarts without its Headmaster. He claims that he was under the impression that Dumbledore was not incapacitated and that by September first, he would be able to perform his offices._

_I quickly disabused him of that misconception. He reluctantly allowed me to assume Headmistress duties and to appoint you as the Deputy Headmaster. But he also gave me specific conditions I was to follow. Zabini said that the Department of Magical Education (which _he_ created!) has reviewed out status and feels that a change of faculty was needed. I was to receive a list of new teachers by late August and dismiss some of our current staff. I refused, but Zabini made it clear that Hogwarts would be closed if I did not comply._

_I fear our new Minister, Severus. He has many of the departments under his control. We as the public are gradually losing our influence upon the wizarding government; little do they know just _how much_ power Zabini might have. The spoils of office are to be feared as well: the Notts, the Bulstrodes, and Saulus Sinistra._

_My suspicions are unfounded. I have no evidence, no proof from which to draw my conclusions, only our Minister's shady past and my own prejudices._

_And now I have a task to impart upon you, Severus. I shall rely heavily upon your Potions skills; they are Dumbledore's last resort. He needs you, Severus, just as the wizarding world needs him. He needs you to find a cure, Severus, and there is no one else I can trust._

A list of Dumbledore's symptoms closed McGonagall's letter. Hermione frowned. Dumbledore's condition pricked feebly at her mind, and she tried to recall why exactly the symptoms sounded vaguely familiar. Hermione scanned the letter again.

_...our Minister's shady past..._

Those words leaped from the page before Hermione's eyes.

Hermione knew a little about Zabini. He had come through Hogwarts as a Slytherin, had been made a sixth year prefect, and then went on to work for the Ministry. Seven years ago, when he and Fudge were contenders in the Minister of Magic race, he had lost due to his strict policy on Muggle-wizard regulations. He was instead put at the Head of the Department of Ancient Wizarding Artifacts. After Fudge's assassination, he rose to the role of Minister because of his seniority.

All this Hermione had gathered from reading _Daily Prophet_ articles, but she had not known of any stain on Zabini's spotless career. Of course, ownership of the wizarding newspaper had changed since the new Ministry took office and the subject matter as well as the reporters, had undergone a drastic makeover.

Hermione was reading the letter for a third time when the door of the Potions classroom slammed open, and there on the threshhold stood Professor Snape.

***************************************

_Squeak. Squeak._

The sound of menial labor was very relaxing. Almost _too_ relaxing. Especially when the form kneeling in front of the trophies was the so-called Hero of Hogwarts. Draco sat comfortably in an armchair while Potter worked diligently. He watched the muscles in Potter's back flex industriously, a play of sinew and bone rippling under the thin fabric of Potter's sweater. Funny. Draco actually had never been in the trophy room before today. He knew Potter was under the impression that he had.

_"I'd take you anytime on my own," said Draco. "Tonight, if you want. Wizards duel. Wands only-no contact. What's the matter? Never heard of a wizard's duel before I suppose?"_

_"Of course he has," said Weasley, wheeling around. "I'm his second, who's yours?"_

_Draco looked at Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up._

_"Crabbe," he said. "Midnight all right?" We'll meet you in the trophy room, that's always unlocked."_

He, of course, had not shown. His attendance had been in doubt; how could it not have been? Draco's intention was to lead Potter into trouble, to topple the pedestal the wizarding world had placed him on. How ironic that this time Potter's attendance had been the one in doubt. Draco smirked; he had long since waited for that day when he would see Potter sprawled at his feet; to prove that he, Draco Malfoy, was the superior one, had been all along. Hadn't his father always told him that a Malfoy bowed to none, that courage to be right in the face of adversity was to be admired above all things? The desire to succeed had driven Draco to this very spot, whispering to him all along in his father's silken voice.

Draco's Head Boy badge glinted in the fading sunlight and he absentmindedly polished the pin with his sleeve. Most people had expected Potter would be named Head Boy this year, but for once events had swung in Draco's favour. Draco had always been the better student, always in the administration's good graces, and a Malfoy, one of the pillars of the pureblooded society. Yet in the past Draco had always been overlooked because of Potter's goodness, Potter's charm, and Potter's hero-status.

But not this year. This year things had changed. Dumbledore had lost his position of influence due to his strange illness and the Muggleborns were losing power in the Ministry. Draco wondered if this change in office was in some way a reflection of himself. Was he the one that had changed, or was it Potter? Somewhere along the way, Draco, born to generations of purebloods, had become the victor and Potter, born of a Mudblood mother, the loser.

He watched Potter gaze wistfully into space, his arms marking lazy circles on the gleaming silver trophies. "Missed a spot there, Potter," Draco drawled, ensconced in a chair, his legs draped casually over the armrest.

"I did not." Green eyes flashed indignantly as Potter turned to shoot him an angry glare.

"Yes, you did," Draco sneered, enjoying Potter's look of dismay. "All the way back there, the first one you cleaned."

Potter glared at Draco, his hard glance never leaving the other boy as he shuffled back to the first trophy. The cold, lifeless emerald eyes of the snake emblazoned on the cup were mirrors of Potter's own. Draco shivered as all four glared at him coldly. With a tired effort, he brought a semblance of dancing mockery back into his own eyes.

"Honestly, I thought your Muggle relatives raised you to do this sort of thing. Perhaps you've forgotten over the course of your history as the Boy-Whom-Everyone-Loved-Because-He-Just-Wouldn't-Die." Draco did not bother to hide the malicious humour from his voice.

The Gryffindor searched vainly for an offending mark on the glistening surface of the trophy before him, but found none.

"What on Earth are you talking about, Malfoy?" Potter asked, displeasure written across his face.

"Pardon me, my mistake," Draco smirked. He pointed lazily at another trophy from his seat across the room. "Maybe it was that one. The one that's almost the size of your over-inflated head."

Potter threw the rag down onto the floor. "I don't have to stand here and listen to you, you know." Defiance stamped itself on his features.

"Of course you don't. You can simply walk out and be expelled." Draco paused slightly before continuing bitterly in an attempt to defuse the building tension. "What? You think they wouldn't take disciplinary action against you because of who you are? You think that _I_ would let you get away with all this?" Draco rose from his seat to close the distance between him and Potter. "You're scared, Potter, admit it." He brought his face closer to the other boy's. "Just say it. It will make everyone's lives that much easier."

Potter did not back down from Draco's invasion of his personal space. Their eyes challenged each other and their wills clashed.

"Yeah?" Potter broke the silence at last. "How? How do you think that will make it better? No one likes to be let down." Potter broke eye contact to pick up the rag and return to cleaning. "You just want to pave the way for your horrid master. You're his toady, Malfoy. I bet it will be the jewel in your crown to say to him, 'I've got Potter out of the way.'" Potter turned his back on Draco.

"Is that what you really think?" Draco said harshly.

"Yeah," Potter said defiantly, his back still turned.

Emotion came crashing through Draco's long-standing walls, colouring his voice with malice and cruelty. "_You_ don't know the first thing about duty or loyalty, Potter. You expect loyalty from your friends, the Mudblood and the Weasel, yet you give them nothing in return. With you, everything is always about 'the great Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.' What about _your_ duty to them? They're looking to you, but all you can do is hide behind your cleaning rag, hoping the Dark Lord will overlook you. You're nothing but a scared, cowardly little----"

"Shut up!" Potter whirled on Draco, an unfathomable expression torturing his face. The tense atmosphere crackled between them.

The two boys stood there in the trophy room, their faces inches from each other, willing the other to crack first. Draco found himself staring into the open, vulnerable eyes of his enemy and felt his surge of hatred ebb.

Suddenly, Potter's expression shut itself and he lifted the trophy between them. "Is this any better?" he asked dully.

Draco glanced down at the shining object and smiled, a trace of sadness lingering at the edge of his lips.

"Smashing. You're halfway there." He stepped back and tossed a can of the cleaner at his charge. "Might need this, you seem to be running low." Potter caught it easily, from long practice as a Seeker. Potter turned and returned to his chore, while Draco watched his back. The Boy Who Lived went back to serving his menial sentence and Draco was once again the victor.

Perhaps the afternoon had not been entirely wasted after all.


	3. The Hollow Man

**_Chapter Three_****   
  
The Hollow Man**   
  
_This is the way the world ends  
This is the way the world ends   
This is the way the world ends  
Not with a bang but a whimper_   
-T.S. Eliot

Hermione couldn't sleep.

Well, if she couldn't sleep, she might as well make some productive use of her time. She was alone in the Gryffindor common room; all the others had already retired for the night. She glanced at the large grandfather clock in the southwest corner of Gryffindor Tower; it read a quarter past twelve.

She sighed and shifted in her red plush chair, shuffling through her notes on Dumbledore's potion. That afternoon, Snape had had her research all she could on the properties of echinacea and ginseng while he thumbed through a large tome pulled from the Hogwarts library.

She shivered. She and Snape had spent the greater part of the afternoon working side by side in silence, punctuated only by sharp conversation.

_ "Where are your friends, Miss Granger?" Snape asked Hermione. "I am surprised they are not all out breaking as many school rules as possible under the pretense of fighting the Dark Lord." _

_ There was a slight sneering edge to his voice, the tone he always used when dealing with Hermione, Ron, and especially Harry. She studiously ignored him, unsure of his motives. She suffered to work with Snape only for Dumbledore's sake._

_ Snape, perhaps seeing that he had not succeeded in getting a rise out of Hermione, tried again._

_ "What about your _friend_, Miss Granger?"_

_ Hermione did not miss the innuendo and emphasis on the world "friend," but could not prevent a flush from staining her cheeks. She continued to work diligently._

_ "He's landed himself detention, I hear. I'm not surprised; he's just like his father that way."_

_ At this jibe, Hermione could not resist looking up and throwing the Potions master an evil glare. Snape had his dark, inscrutable eyes fixed on her face, and to Hermione's surprise and unease, a small smile lingered at the corner of his lips._

_ Snape chuckled unpleasantly. "Ever ready to defend your boyfriend, are we, Miss Granger? Why? He's a miserable, whinging prat who believes himself to be more special than the rest on the account of that scar. The boy has delusions of grandeur; he thinks that he can defeat the Dark Lord?" _

_ "Harry _will_ defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" Hermione cried, unable to contain herself any longer._

_ Snape smiled, a horrible twisting of his lips. "Do you truly believe that, Miss Granger? Would you entrust your life into Mr. Potter's hands, he who would rather spend his time sleeping than studying---"_

_ "I would trust Harry with my life," Hermione said firmly. Snape lifted a dark eyebrow._

_ "Indeed, Miss Granger. Well, I might reconsider my obvious crush on Harry Potter before my love blinds me to his shortcomings."_

_ Crimson flooded Hermione's face and she trembled with indignation._

_ "I don't know what you're talking about, Professor," she said, her voice low and hard._

_ "Do you now?" Snape asked, no humour left in his sneering words. "I always thought you were bright, Miss Granger. An insufferable know-it-all in class, but bright nonetheless. Can't you figure it out?"_

_ Hermione longed to lash out with a sharp retort, but kept the biting comments to herself. Snape was not worthy of her contempt; he was a teacher as well._

_ Hermione bent her head over her notes again. She felt his eyes fixed upon her head, but refused to meet them, refused to be baited, and refused to be goaded._

There were times Hermione couldn't help but admire the Potions master's devotion to his subject, but those were few and far between.

Mostly she hated him.

She hated his brooding countenance, his inscrutable dark eyes, his sneering manner (almost rival to that of Malfoy), but what she hated most of all was the Professor's unabashed and cutting frankness.

Professor Snape did not lie.

He never told the whole truth, but when he did, its keen edge sliced deeper than a razorblade.

And Hermione had been nursing her wounds for a long time.

Hermione wondered if it was a Slytherin trait, the ability to cheapen another's emotions. Harry had never been hers, yet she cherished the warmth she felt in his presence. Harry had never given her a second thought, but she offered her love to him unconditionally.

It hurt.

It hurt more than anything.

It hurt when he had spoken of Cho. It hurt when he gave her nothing more than chaste pecks on the cheek. It hurt when she never felt desire in his embraces.

It hurt the most when Hermione knew she would never, ever taste passion on Harry's lips.

Despite the many hurts rending her heart, she would still love him. She would never let go of her feelings for Harry; they were her security blanket to which she returned day after day, night after night. She wrapped herself in a cocoon of Harry-love, feeling safe and protected, just as she did whenever she was with him. Harry was her shield, against Voldemort, against the world.

Hermione smiled softly, although the wounds of her heart still bled, reluctant to heal.

Yes, she would always love Harry.

Her Harry.

Her best friend.

The portrait door swung shut.

Hermione looked up from Dumbledore's potion's notes to see Harry walking in from detention. She glanced at the grandfather clock; it was now half-past midnight. She was surprised; Malfoy had kept him late.

She began to rise from the chair to greet him but was checked by the sight of Harry's flushed face and bright, angry eyes. Harry flicked a glance Hermione's way and then struggled to get past her to his dormitory bedroom.

"Harry---"

"Don't." He whirled around. Two spots of high colour burned his cheekbones. "Don't...talk to me."

Hermione was taken aback by the anger sparking from Harry's green eyes. Passion flared in his face, setting his skin aflame. Hermione couldn't remember the last time she had seen Harry so incensed.

"Harry, are you all right?"

He snorted. "All right? Do I bloody look all right?"

No, he didn't look all right. He looked beautiful, his emerald eyes alight and his complexion heightened. Hermione ventured hesitantly, "Harry, it wasn't my fault Malfoy---"

Harry laughed derisively.

"Not your fault? No, of course not. I'm not blaming you. I'm blaming the whole world, Dumbledore, my fucking dead parents, Ron, Ginny---"

"Harry, stop!" Hermione grasped Harry's shoulders, suddenly frightened. She sucked in a sharp breath; since when had he become so thin? "Harry." Hermione inhaled a deep breath. He seemed to calm under her touch.

Harry dropped his eyes. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

Hermione stared at him. She had memorized every line of his face long ago, the square cut of his jaw, the sharp darkness of his eyebrows cutting across his pale skin, the tilt of his lashes framing his gorgeous emerald eyes, and his strong nose, anchoring his handsome face.

Now Hermione felt as though she was staring into the face of a stranger. Every line was familiar, yet there was something missing. Her security blanket began to unravel at its edges.

"Harry..."

He raised his eyes from behind his glasses. At once Hermione knew what was gone from Harry's familiar face.

It was devoid of any sort of determination.

Hermione no longer saw the fierceness that had animated Harry's features, his drive and protectiveness.

She was seeing the face of someone who had succumbed to resignation, a shell of a man who was wearing Harry Potter's face.

Hermione clung to the frayed rags of her blanket, suddenly finding it thin and threadbare. She shivered, seeing Harry as he was for the first time.

"Harry, what's wrong?" Hermione asked softly.

Harry looked surprised, and then quickly glanced away.

"What's wrong? I just spent the entire bloody afternoon in the same room with Malfoy, that's what. Polishing Slytherin trophies and his ego at the same time."

He had deliberately sidestepped her question. Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Harry, I've known you for seven years. _That's_ not what's bothering you."

His eyes darted furtively back and forth.

"Harry---"

He turned his head.

Hermione grew angry. Where was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived? Where was her Harry, unafraid to break his neck in Quidditch, unafraid to face unknown dangers?

"I don't know what your problem is, Harry," Hermione began, her voice harsh. "You know that I've been doing all I can to make excuses for you. It's not working anymore, Harry. You can't stall for more time. I can't give you more time. You have to act sooner or later, and it better be sooner before there isn't a later---"

"Oh sod it, Hermione!" Harry yelled.

Hermione stepped back, chilled. Her eyes quickly welled with tears, but she refused to bring her hand up to wipe them away, refused to acknowledge how much Harry had hurt her. He had never spoken like that with her, had never raised his voice to her.

Determination had fled his face, but sullen resentment had replaced it.

"Has anyone stopped to consider that I'm just Harry Potter? Not Harry Potter the Boy Who Lived, but me, Harry, just Harry? I'm seventeen years old, Hermione, not seventy. I don't know what's right from what's wrong. _I'm nothing special, Hermione._"

Harry's breath caught in his throat. Two angry splashes of red stained his cheeks, while his eyes were bright. Hermione thought dispassionately how much more beautiful Harry was than Malfoy, whom she had seen caught up in a similar display of passion not three days ago. Harry was real, visceral, and so very _alive_, even in his apathy, whereas Malfoy was cool, distant, and beautiful as a snowflake. (Credits to Cassie here?)

Every colour that composed Harry's face seemed to Hermione so vivid, so brilliant in that disconnected moment. She could scarcely hear what Harry was saying, only seeing that his lips were red and full, and she wondered how soft they were.

"You are special, Harry," Hermione breathed.

"Am I?" he asked, his chest heaving. "Why am I so fucking special, Hermione? Why? I didn't ask to be me. I didn't ask for my parents to die. If things had gone right, I would have died with them. I would have been a nobody, some poor babe who was tragically lost along with his mum and dad. _There is nothing special about me, Hermione._ Nothing. The wizarding world better look to another saviour, because I---"

Hermione pressed her lips against Harry's. He broke off his litany, surprised into silence by her sudden actions. She kissed him tenderly, then fiercely, then desperately, feeling no warmth, no passion, no desire in return.

She felt his arms push her away. Gently, but with abrupt force.

Hermione broke off the kiss.

"Harry, I---"

She couldn't bring herself to look at him. At his shocked _expression, at his disbelief, and worst of all, his disgust.

"Hermione, why did you do that?"

Her breath caught. She looked up.

His eyes were grave and pained and all the impassioned colour had drained from his face to leave it pale and wan. It was not the reaction she had anticipated. She had expected reciprocation at the very best, refusal at the very worst.

She had not been prepared for complete and utter horror.

Yes, horror flooded his features, turning them white and pale. He blanched visibly and brought his hands to his mouth.

"Harry---"

"Why did you do that, Hermione?" he asked, his voice bizarrely monotonous.

"Harry, I lo---"

"_No!_" he shouted, backing away from her. "No!"

More than Snape's knifelike truth, the keenness of Harry's revulsion seared her. The pain in her heart threatened to burst. By sheer force, she willed it to calm, but was unable to stop the pain from spilling over into tears.

"Hermione, why?" Anguish now filled Harry's voice. "I can't! I can't!"

He turned and fled up the stairs to the dormitory bedrooms.

****************************************

Ron could hear them arguing.

He turned abruptly in his bed, kicking the covers despite the chill. He felt strangely violent and moody, although it couldn't have been a better Friday.

The shouts were indistinct, but it sounded like Harry's voice to Ron. He glanced over to his friend's empty bed and wondered what on Earth he could have been doing for so long. Not even Filch gave eight-hour detentions.

Privately (although he would never reveal this to Hermione), Ron thought that Harry was simply being a prat about the whole matter. He thought that the Boy Wonder had perhaps taken this charge to defeat Voldemort a bit too seriously. He was only seventeen after all. Many full-grown wizards hadn't been able to defeat Voldemort, much less a thin, long-limbed adolescent.

Ron sighed. His philosophy on life was so different from Harry's. Ron wanted to live life to the fullest and ignore the tragedies. Harry tended to be withdrawn when faced with adversity, a bit on the taciturn side, and a tad anti-social.

Ron had the sneaking suspicion that Harry was revelling in his newfound self-pity. He probably thought it was romantic: gazing off into the sunset, contemplating his doom, while the world fell into pieces around him.

Like it was really falling into pieces.

Ron had spent most of that Friday with Dean and Seamus, deciding that feeding Rochester's pet horny dino-mole Filibuster's No-Heat Wet-Start Fireworks would be a lot more interesting than wondering where on Earth Harry and Hermione had gone.

Ron turned over again, this time so hard that he heard Neville stop mid-snore. He calmed down. Presently, Neville returned to his previous nocturnal pasttime.

Ron sighed. The truth was, he found it difficult to spend any more time with Harry and Hermione in his seventh year. Hermione being made Head Girl often kept her away from Harry and Ron, and the fact that Harry was absent more than half the time was a big obstacle in spending time with him.

The arguing was getting louder. Ron threw the covers off and sat up in bed. How could the rest of them sleep through that? He cast his eyes on the slumbering forms of Dean, Seamus, and Neville, all of them oblivious to the gradual erosion of the legs of the Trio.

Ron couldn't place the exact time or place he had realized that the equal angles of the Trio were getting more and more obtuse. It had become skewed and Ron often felt like the odd angle out. Perhaps it was because Hermione was so caught up in her Head Girl duties, or because Harry was more preoccupied with his status as the wizarding world's poster boy that it was Ron who felt the effects acutely.

Surely Hermione could feel the effects too? Without Harry's leg, their Trio became a two-sided polygon, a line, incomplete and vulnerable. The last two meetings had gone by without Harry, who was off to who-knew-where. Hermione had said that he most likely needed time alone; they were placing a lot of pressure on him.

However, it was Harry's mandate, his imperative to save the world, just as it was Ron's and Hermione's to stand by him. Ron and Hermione had gone through with the meetings, ready to shoulder the responsibility of finding out what had happened in the Ministry, of thinking of ways to defeat the Dark Lord. Even if they hadn't been inducted into the Order of the Phoenix in their fifth year, it was what the Trio did best.

The arguing had stopped and it was surprisingly quiet in the common room.

Ron stepped off his bed and threw on a jumper. He shivered from the cold; he had come ill-prepared for the changes that had taken place at Hogwarts, the rationing, and the relationships. He slipped into a pair of slippers and shuffled his way down to the common room, unsure of what he would see and hoping to salvage what he had left.

*******************************************

Her eyes haunted him all the way up the dark corridors, back to the dormitory.

They burned themselves into his memory. In his mind's eye, Harry could see them, bright with tears, tears that she refused to shed. Forevermore would he find chocolate-brown the colour of anguish, of hurt, and of betrayal, the exact colour and shade of Hermione's eyes. Eyes that had supported him, held him up, and had always been there for him, eyes he could turn to for comfort. Eyes that belonged to his undying pillar of strength. Harry knew that without Hermione, he would have died a long time ago.

Now, not even Hermione had a plan for him. His pillar had crumbled, faded into the dust of his memories. He had seen it in her pleading _expression. The girl he thought of as his best friend had turned to him for help. He brought his fingers to his lips, unable to recall the desperation with which she had kissed him. She had reached for him and all he could do was push her away.

He was scared. Scared by what she asked of him. Frightened of what she placed on his shoulders. Scared because he knew that deep within, he would never mirror what she felt for him, or live up to what she expected of him.

Harry felt the tears that Hermione had refused to cry well up behind his glasses. He ought to have cared; Hermione, after all, had stood beside him for seven years. Why couldn't he care? Why didn't warmth and passion fill him? He balled his hands and shoved them in his trouser pockets. There was no fooling himself; he loved Hermione, but not that way.

"Harry?"

He looked up to see Ron standing on the stairwell above him.

"Detention's over, I take it." The gangly redhead sprinted down the corridor to meet Harry.

Harry nodded dumbly. Best friend or no, he wasn't in the mood to strike up a conversation. There was a beat of awkward silence.

"You missed supper, you know. Must be pretty hungry, mate," Ron commented, eyeing Harry dubiously.

Harry grinned halfheartedly. "I know. Part of McGonagall's new plan to conserve resources: scheduling all those detentions during mealtimes. Why not kill two birds with one stone? Punish the delinquents by depriving them of food and save on food bills? Why not?"

"Harry." He felt Ron's blue eyes scrutinizing his appearance. Harry was glad for the darkness in the stairwell that hid the tears glittering in his eyes. Another silence passed between the two friends. "Did you see Hermione? She wasn't at supper either."

Harry was a bit surprised. Hermione wasn't at supper either? That was unusual. "I saw her. She's in the common room," Harry said shortly and tried to continue into the dorm. Ron stood in his path and looked at him through ginger eyelashes, concerned.

"Harry. Something up? Detention get to you?" Harry tried to return Ron's goofy smile. "I mean, I know Malfoy's an awful git, but you can't let him get to you like that." Ron grinned. "Would you hear that, coming from me, Ron Weasley, Professional Malfoy Hater." The grin dropped and Ron adopted a serious tone. "Listen, Harry, I don't know what's bothering you. You've been withdrawn and anti-social. It's harsh, mate, I know. But you've got to buck up, Harry. They're counting on you; we're counting on you."

Harry clenched his jaw, suppressing the frustration and rage he felt ever since had left Malfoy. He returned Ron's gaze with solemn certainty.

"It's nothing."

Ron looked at him skeptically, raising a ginger eyebrow.

"Look, I haven't exactly had the greatest afternoon." He struggled to find the right words. Lying to Ron was not as difficult as lying to Hermione, but there was the slight possibility his tongue might still betray him. It was hard to get used to, lying, despite the fact he had been lying to everyone all year. About his classes, his ambitions, his feelings. The shroud of deceit had fallen sharply between the boys, and Harry could sense, however vaguely, that Ron had felt the change.

"Okay, Harry, I get it." Ron sighed. Harry could see the resignation on his friend's face.

Harry smiled, but it was more of a grimace than a grin. "Thanks, Ron."

"Anytime, Harry," he replied. The red-haired boy placed his hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry looked at it. "By the way, there's a meeting tomorrow morning in the empty Charms classroom. Did Hermione tell you?"

"She didn't say anything." Harry remembered dourly he hadn't given her much of a chance. He had fled at a crucial moment, unable to face the fears that had threatened to capsize his already floundering sanity.

"That's not like her." Ron frowned, leaning against the stone wall to think. With Ron, thinking was a function of his entire body, not just his mind. Harry watched him furrow his brow with a barely audible sigh.

Oh, but it was like Hermione. It just wasn't like Harry Potter, or the Harry Potter that everyone thought they knew.

"No, it's not," Harry answered. It was hard to fool Ron this way, he thought. It took his resolve not to sprint away into the safety of their bedroom, to what little privacy his bed offered. He looked at Ron. "You coming to bed?"

"Nah," Ron waved off the suggestion. "I'm going to nip to the kitchens. Feel a bit peckish."

Ron brushed past Harry on the way down. Halfway down the stairwell, he turned. "By the way, you _are_ coming tomorrow, right?"

Harry gazed earnestly into his friend's face. He couldn't imagine Hogwarts without Ron; he knew every habit, every _expression that had ever graced his best friend's face. Ron stared back, grinning slightly. "Ol' Herm scheduled it for eight o'clock in the morning. She told me not to be late, and gave that Look. You know, the one she nicked from McGonagall. Can you believe her? She hasn't changed a bit."

No, she hadn't. But Harry had. At one time, he might have shared Ron's amusement at the image of a very huffy and determined Hermione, glaring at them with sharp eyes and frizzy hair spilling over her face. The way things used to be. He gazed thoughtfully at Ron's face, letting his sorrow rest there, in its familiar lines, contours and planes.

"I can't, Ron."

Ron was taken aback. "What do you mean? Don't tell me you have a Saturday morning class. Not like you would attend." There was bitterness in the boy's voice. Harry knew he was responsible, for Ron's disappointment, for the tears Hermione wouldn't shed, for everything.

"I can't, I just...can't. Tell Hermione that...tell her...tell her something, Ron." With that, Harry turned and walked away, leaving the red-haired boy leaning against the wall, brow half-furrowed, with surprise on his lips.

*******************************************

The tears wouldn't spill.

Hermione had sat herself down on the plush red chair again. She closed her eyes, refusing to let the pain in her heart overwhelm her. Hermione was first and foremost a practical young lady; that particular avenue was closed to her. She would not fret over it.

Her mind could tell her heart that, but her heart still controlled her tears.

She heard footfalls behind her and she tensed. It wasn't Harry's gait.

"Herm?"

She turned.

"Ron."

"Is everything all right? I heard yelling."

"Everything's fine," she said.

Ron gazed at her sternly. She felt a fresh wave of tears erupt from her heart, but her mind ordered them to stop.

"Harry's not coming."

Hermione looked into Ron's grave blue eyes and nodded, unable to speak. She wasn't surprised. In fact, she wasn't sure how she felt, other than heartbroken. All other emotions couldn't be felt over the sheer blanket of pain that covered her.

"Something's going on with him." Ron slid easily into the seat opposite her. He leaned forward over his long legs, elbows on his knees. Hermione did not meet his expectant stare.

"I know," she replied, evading his question. Ron leaned closer.

"What happened to him, Hermione? He's not the Harry I remember."

Was he? Or was the boy they remembered an illusion? Were her feelings for him merely friendship covered by a smokescreen? She thought back to the thin, small eleven-year-old she had first met on the Hogwarts Express and compared him to the tall, thin seventeen-year-old that had pushed her away in the Gryffindor common room. Were they the same person?

"I hardly see him anymore. Didn't even know he had detention until you told me, Hermione. Do you think that perhaps him skiving off class and skipping meetings might be something more than just worrying about You-Know-Who? He's changed, Hermione, and I don't know why. Sometimes I feel as though I'm losing him. Do you think it's something I said?"

"Ron, I hardly think something you might have said would cause Harry to skip all of his classes and refuse all social interaction."

Ron eyed her doubtfully. "I dunno, Herm. Sometimes I get the impression that he's avoiding us. Avoiding the world. Avoiding his responsibilities."

Tears shattered her vision like shards of crystal. "Do you think I haven't noticed?" she responded softly. Hermione stared into the empty fireplace. "He's been having a rough time, Ron. He can't fly, Hagrid's gone, Malfoy is---"

"Oh blast, Hermione. Everything's nothing but excuses! He's got to stop feeling sorry for himself. You're not helping matters. Stop making excuses for him."

"He makes them for himself." Hermione's tone was sad.

But what excuse did he have for pushing her away when she needed him, wanted him?

For a long time Ron and Hermione sat in silence, remembering a time when the room had been warm and cozy, with a bright fire glowing in the hearth. Now not a log burned in the fireplace and they had resorted to wearing extra layers. Ron's freckled face shone in the moonlight as he gazed at his friend's familiar countenance. Presently, he ventured:

"What did you say to him, Hermione?"

Hermione abruptly looked up from the empty fireplace. "I didn't say anything, Ron."

No, she had not _said_ anything.

"Oh come off it, Herm. You know what's going on here, why won't you say anything? What did you say to Harry when he came through here? What would make him run off like that?"

"Are you implying that it's my fault, Ron Weasley?" Anger replaced pain.

"No," Ron answered, "But I want some answers, Hermione, and you're the only person I might get them from. Merlin knows I don't have any."

"I don't have any either," she said. It wasn't strictly a lie.

Another silence fell over the two of them. Wearily, Ron broke the silence once more. "What's the meeting going to be about?"

"Without Harry...we can't...it's..." Hermione was at a loss. Everything had depended on Harry's coming: the plan, their safety...her heart.

Ron leaned forward to place an arm comfortingly around her shoulders. "I'm sure he'll come, Hermione." She looked into the face of the one she knew she could count on, the face of Ron Weasley, who hadn't changed through their seven years of friendship. "He'll come, Herm." His cheerful words belied the doubt in his blue eyes.

Outside the tower windows, the moon was setting in a clear winter sky. The cold always burned away the clouds, leaving the castle awash in a harsh purity of light. Rays slanted into the room, drowning all color in a flood of silver and shadow. To Hermione, it was the saddest thing she had ever seen; the reduction of such a cheerful space to melancholy loneliness.

"He will come if we wait, Herm." Ron smiled. "He will come."

**********************************************

_ You _are_ coming tomorrow, right?_

Harry glanced at the clock beside his bed. The hands read _You should be sleeping now_. He had lain in bed for the past couple of hours, unable to fall asleep as the accusing voices of those around him replayed in his head. Everything was falling away from him, even his friends. He stretched himself out on his bed, wondering where the trio of his happy past had gone. Then he had not cared about Voldemort, about the state of the world around him. He was happy. He had the friendship of his friends. He had Quidditch. He had Sirius.

He had been _normal_.

Now he was the wizarding world's Messiah, the godson of a criminal not yet cleared of his crime, and the unattainable love interest of the story's heroine.

He didn't think he could face her; he couldn't take seeing the pain he had inflicted upon her. He didn't even think it was worth it to hurt her, couldn't explain what had possessed him to do so, other than the overwhelming horror that had risen in his chest. Wasn't their relationship only natural? Didn't he care for her?

"Hermione," he said into the darkness.

How had so many years gone by without him noticing Hermione's feelings? Surely he should have known. Her eyes followed his every move, she leapt to his side at every opportunity; she gave and gave and never expected anything in return. He had thought he returned her devotion equally, but things spiraled out of control, before he even realized there was an issue needing his attention. Harry had never fathomed such an outcome to their relationship. He thought that Ron and Hermione would always be his two supports, buttressing him against the elements. He never considered that one leg he leaned on might possibly turn, throwing him off balance. Harry only had one place to go when his thoughts overtook him, the people who were always his first and last resorts. But now he found himself being the one they turned to.

"What do they want from me?" Harry whispered. His mind mocked him.

_ They want you to be someone you aren't._

_ Coward._

_ They give and give to you, but you can't give anything in return._

_ Useless._

_ They trusted in a façade before, but now they're seeing the real Harry Potter, aren't they?_

He covered his ears with his pillow, hoping to push the thoughts away, but they kept returning. Malfoy's sneering voice rose above the din in his mind.

_ You don't know the first thing about duty or loyalty, Potter. You expect loyalty from your friends, the Mudblood and the Weasel, yet you give them nothing in return. With you, everything is always about the great Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. What about your duty to them?_

Ron and Hermione's faces swam in front of him, silent and tortured.

"I can't be who they want me to be," he said softly, to no one in particular. He wrestled with the eleven-year-old boy within him, the one that had rushed into the chamber that housed the Philosopher's Stone. The one that compelled him to go to the meeting against his wishes. He didn't want to. He wanted to let someone else shoulder the responsibility for a change. The wizarding world was a heavy burden, and unlike Atlas, Harry didn't possess Titan strength.

However, within his eleven-year-old mind, he did. He could take up the sword and spear and fight, or die in the attempt. At the same time, his seventeen-year-old hatred, grief, and loss burned brightly within him. And a nameless fear. A fear that held him captive in its glistening black claws. The thing Harry feared was failure, and the adoration of the world. If he failed, he would be responsible for more death than anyone he had ever read about, each person Voldemort slaughtered and tortured would be added to his chain of sorrows. But if he succeeded, he would be a hero, truly the Golden Boy of the wizarding world. In the darkness of his heart, Harry didn't know which was worse.

Ron's words swam through his inner eye as he felt the wings of slumber begin to close over him.

_ They're counting on you; we're counting on you._

They were counting on him.

McGonagall.

Sirius.

Ron.

Hermione.

But it wasn't Ron's face nor Hermione's eyes that flitted across his mind before he faded into sleeping consciousness. It was Malfoy's voice.

_ You're scared, Potter, admit it._

He laughed softly to himself, a laugh full of scorn and derision. He was right, Harry thought. I am scared.

He let his aching heart lull him to sleep.


	4. A Mind Diseased

Dedicated to the "real" Chester and Watson for being crazy enough to write about. Thanks to Flo and Laivinië for being fabulous betas and make sure to watch out for your cameos.  Also, thanks also to Indy for keeping us amused during Watson's lectures. "Crucified with flaming nails" must be attributed to Chester, and all Watsonisms are courtesy of the real Watson.  "Betrayed him with a kiss" was taken from the Bible.  Co-written with Chester's flamboyant purple quill by Vendë and Aranel.

**A Mind Diseased**

  
_Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,  
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,  
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,  
And with some sweet oblivious antidote  
Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff  
Which weighs upon the heart?_  
-_MacBeth_, Act V, Scene 3.1

Watson was an idiot.

From the moment the young American Astronomy professor had swept into his classroom, proudly displaying his shaved head and casual dress robes, Draco had known. Watson was not simply a sufferer of mediocre intelligence; no, he was a full-fledged imbecile. Draco lazily let his mind drift back to the lecture. In Watson's class, paying attention was as superfluous as Heating Charms in the desert summer. The material was irrelevant, the grading laughably easy and most of the lectures were devoted to the latest developments in Watson's love life.

"Did I tell you I went out with Isabella last night?"

Draco settled back into his seat with a practiced smirk. Ah. Draco had forgotten that it was Monday, and they were due for a Weekend Story. No doubt some idiotic female classmate of his would pipe up right about now and encourage him.

"Where did you go?" asked a female voice, as if on cue.

"Funny you should ask. It wasn't like it was veggly interesting or anything of that nature but I met her up at in Hogsmeade, and we had some food. Well, actually I had most of the food, and if they just had hot wings, everything would be darn-shpanking perfect..." Watson looked about the room, having lost the thread of his altogether pointless narrative. Sadly, Draco observed, he was able to jump back on his previous train of thought rather quickly.

Draco stopped listening and turned to the sizable stack of parchments on his desk. He inked his quill with a flourish, and wrote "veggly" at the end of a very long list. It took up the majority of the pages neatly stacked in front of him. Draco suspected that someday, it might amount to its own dictionary, as if anyone would ever purchase a collection of Watsonisms. Nevertheless, it kept Draco amused, and that was worth something since being in Watson's class was about as enjoyable as being crucified with flaming nails.

Privately, Draco wondered how Hogwarts could have stooped so low as to hire Professor Watson. He could have had all sorts of American credentials, but Draco wouldn't have trusted a credential from America signed by every Minister in the wizarding world. Watson, however, did not seem intelligent enough to carry out a proper forgery. So it seemed as though Hogwarts was stooping low indeed. Draco wondered what his father would have to say about that.

Draco detested Watson's buoyant cheerfulness as well. It was just like the professor to saunter into a frigid classroom dressed in light robes only to gaze at his freezing students with a bemused expression.

"Is it cold in here?" he was known to say, and often refused to sympathize with his chilled pupils. Slytherins jeeringly referred to him as the Ogre, for his less than stellar wit, stocky appearance, and bumbling ways.

"Do you think we will be moving past star-charts anytime soon?" asked a bored Slytherin girl in front of Draco. She shook dirty blonde hair out of her eyes, and fiddled with the many woven bracelets gracing her wrists.

"What do you have in mind?" Watson replied, stopping in the middle of an energetic discussion about the movement of stars, his wand inexpertly falling to the floor.

"What about gnomes?" she asked, openly taunting the dense professor.

"The little boogers about yee high?" asked Watson, putting his hand out in front of him, approximately three feet off the ground. "The ones that lived in manzanita groves?"

The class stared at him in silence.

"You know, manzanitas. The bushes? With red bark?"

The class remained quiet except for a few snide Slytherin remarks.

Watson floundered for a moment before realizing that he was referring to an obscure plant from California, a state that his students were none too familiar with, much less the plant. Watson noted their lack of interest, and after a few more moments of discomfort, he remembered the original question.

"That would be a negatory. This is Astronomy class, Miss Condor, not Care of Magical Creatures." Watson replied happily.

"Of course not," remarked Granger, somewhat acidly, "since Care of Magical Creatures was abolished."

"This is true," remarked Watson, unconcerned. He returned to his active portrayal of the stars in motion. The Slytherin with the bracelets turned to a fellow Slytherin, a blonde who had been making fun of the pitiable thickheaded-ness of the teacher with a dark-haired Ravenclaw from behind her quill. The three smirked and resumed passing notes.

_Negatory._

Draco scratched another word on the ever-growing list.

He observed the professor running around in circles with cool, grey eyes. Watson was apparently trying to demonstrate the elliptical motion of celestial bodies with his erratic pacing.

_He runs like a girl,_ Draco thought with amusement bordering on disgust as Watson pranced back and forth across the room, coming to rest directly in front of the charts.

"Excuse me Professor, can you move?" a studious Ravenclaw asked from the front row, adjusting her glasses. Her tone was annoyed. Trust a Ravenclaw to take notes in classes as silly as this one. Not even the infamously scholarly Granger picked up a quill in Astronomy.

"Oh yes I can!" proclaimed Watson, and began to spasm violently with a ridiculous grin plastered upon his face. After a while Draco realized to his horror that Watson was dancing. A stunned silence fell, and Watson said, "Oh! You mean over there!" and promptly vacated his position in front of the star chart.

Draco inked his quill again, adding a footnote to his list in glaring red ink.

_Never ask, "Can you move?" _

Draco looked up, casting about for something to cleanse the horrific image of Watson's impromptu dance from his mind. He almost wished he could gouge out what remained of his mind's eye after that...spectacle, yet it remained burned into his memory.

The classroom was seemingly divided into two camps: Gryffindor-Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw-Slytherin. He observed his housemates with casual indifference, noting that they all seemed as bored as he. What respect they ever held for Watson had long since disappeared. For the most part, his housemates occupied the back rows, sprawled out extravagantly with no regard to the professor whatsoever. Draco caught the eye of one brown-haired Slytherin, who arched her eyebrow delicately over her specs every once in a while at Watson's idiotic behaviour.

Draco's attention turned from Slytherin to Ravenclaw. Amazing. They were actually paying attention. The Ravenclaws were diligent even in their contempt, struggling to stay awake long enough to take notes.

On the other side of the room, as far from the Slytherins as possible, sat the Gryffindors. They presented a united front against Draco's house, alike in their contempt and feeling of moral and actual superiority. Their attitude, Draco mused, could be partially due to the ridiculous spirit club started by one annoyingly enthusiastic seventh year female in an effort to boost morale, but was more likely due to their false sense of complacency, thanks to Dumbledore and the famous Harry Potter.

However, it was the famous Harry Potter himself who was conspicuously absent from Watson's class. The gap between Weasley and Granger was as noticeable as a lost front tooth, and Draco felt the gap as keenly as an ache in his jaw. The smooth sea of faces that stared back at him was marred by Potter's absence. From the hole that was Potter's seat, Draco fancied he could feel the ghost of a green-eyed glare, a relic of a time when Potter attended classes regularly.

It seemed as though Chester had been correct. One detention had not been enough; Potter had deliberately missed class again. 

_"I doubt that one detention, or even two, would resolve that boy's problems," Chester remarked, gesturing for Draco to sit in front of him. Draco did so, setting his papers down on the top of the Professor's already messy desk. Rochester crossed his legs and put his hands behind his head. Draco watched Chester pat his head absentmindedly, smoothing his hair. Draco did not respond to his comment; Chester always answered himself anyway. "In fact I doubt it would ripple the surface of the deep wells that are his issues."_

_"What would you suggest?" Draco asked, not bothering to feign any interest in the subject at hand. He wanted his problems to solve themselves, to dust his hands of them completely. Although it was not an admirable trait in a Head Boy, he was a Malfoy; there were people below him that took care of his problems. Now that his victory had come to pass, it bored him. He was a conqueror, not a governor._

_"A more prolonged detention schedule, to be frank. I would say two days a week for a month," Rochester said in his dry, searching voice._

_"Who has the authority to make that decision?" said Draco. Whoever it was, Draco wanted him or her to make it happen. Anything to get him out of Potter's tangled life._

_"McGonagall. Or Snape, in her absence. I think they would agree with us. The only problem, to be frank once again, is you."_

_"Me?" Draco was offended. "I'm afraid I don't follow."_

_"Your schedule does not allow for you to miss so much class. The faculty does not want to create an academic problem for you," Rochester fiddled with his purple-feathered quill idly._

_"Split the detentions, then. I will administer one a week, a faculty member the other."_

_"Who?" Rochester's quill waved ferociously as he stroked his hair._

_"Watson, perhaps?" A scheming smile spread across both of their faces. Rochester dismissed the Head Boy, and strode out to meet with McGonagall. _

The idea had gone through with little opposition, as the Headmistress was preoccupied with Ministry relations and Snape had no qualms about punishing Harry Potter. The only element that remained was to notify the Boy Wonder himself.

Draco strove to master his own feelings, which flitted about his mind as erratically as Professor Watson performing his usual pacing feats.

He was bored. He was a Malfoy. He had had everything handed to him on velvet cushions as a child. If it did not serve his needs, with a flick of his wrist he could send it away. Draco had paid for every silver platter, but in ways he had not realized. His spoiled existence had taken a toll on his attention span. To another person, to a subject that did not interest him, Draco could give nothing. Inherent self worth, self-esteem, and even an amount of self-centeredness were embedded in his psyche, as much a part of his day-to-day as being a Slytherin. Draco had few thoughts to spare for the students about him; he saw them only as pawns moving in utterly predictable patterns. They had been stepping stones that led him to a position as Head Boy, and would eventually lead him to something greater.

Ambition.

All Slytherins had it, but few were as successful, as influential, or as driven as Draco Malfoy. He was comfortable with all of these things. Draco understood his own aloof disinterestedness. He knew that he was inherently better than most.

There were other feelings that troubled him. The burning rage, deep in his heart, was familiar, but it had always disturbed him, because he had not anticipated it. No, he had anticipated something quite different regarding Harry Potter. Anger was not what he intended when he introduced himself to the pint-sized celebrity, back on the train before first year. 

_Draco slid the door of the compartment open, and looked with interest at the dark-haired, green-eyed boy sitting there._

_"Is it true?" Draco began, "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"_

_"Yes." Draco watched the boy's eyes slid over to Crabbe and Goyle, and realized what he was thinking._

_"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," he said carelessly. "And my name's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."_

_The red-haired boy coughed and Draco turned indignant eyes on him._

_"Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasley's have red hair, freckles, and more children then they could afford." Malice honed from years of privilege laced his voice. A feeling of satisfaction rose in him as the Weasley clenched his grubby fists and his face turned a blotchy red between the freckles. He turned back to Potter._

_"You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter," glancing pointedly at Weasley. "You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."_

_With that, Draco held out his pale hand in Potter's direction._

_"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," the dark haired boy said coolly._

_Draco flushed in anger. There were obviously things this Potter boy did not understand about wizarding society. He brought his hand back to his side, keeping it relaxed with effort._

It was the first time he had been denied something he desired. It would not be the last, but it was the first and it stung more than anything else that had followed did. The friendship of Harry Potter would have been a great asset to him; only a fool could miss his hero's destiny. It followed Potter like a personal cloud of stars, lighting up everything he did. The boy lived a charmed life. Draco would have made Potter rise to even greater heights and then used that fame to catapult himself into power.

Perhaps Potter had understood, better than Draco himself had at the time, that Slytherins did not really have friends. They made offers of friendship, but these bore more resemblance to military alliances than invitations to comradeship. Whatever the reason, he had been slighted, an insult not easily forgotten.

There was a creak as the door opened, drawing the notice of everyone in the room. Draco squinted his metallic eyes, more than a little annoyed at having his thoughts interrupted. However, his anger vanished without a trace when Harry Potter slipped through the small opening, every line of his body apologetic. A slight grin rose unbidden to Draco's lips as the Gryffindor eased into his usual seat. He noted carefully Granger's relative coldness, and how she flinched as Potter steadied himself by placing a hand on her shoulder. The Mudblood wouldn't meet Potter's eyes, an act that struck Draco as unusual. He stored it away in his mind for future examination.

As if sensing his appraising stare, Potter glanced up from his seat to look at Draco. His emerald eyes sparked from behind his glinty specs and his wan complexion fired with unexpected emotion. The intensity of his glare hit Draco like an ice-cold fist in his stomach. Draco swallowed, refusing to let Potter ruffle his cool exterior, and let his patented smirk grace his face.

Well, at least now he was spared the task of finding Potter to notify him of the detention change. Draco promised himself that he would meet Potter after class.

Potter looked away and the shades of enmity fell between them once more. Draco did not glance away. He contemplated the methodic movement of Potter's eagle-feather quill as one question circled his mind.

What had motivated Potter to come to class? 

***************************************** 

The door scraped across the stone floor of the Astronomy classroom.

Hermione raised her head hopefully, a familiar pang tearing through her heart. An icy hand of nervousness clenched her stomach, and she bit her lip, praying for, yet dreading the sight of viridian eyes behind owlish spectacles. The door slid open further and Hermione released the breath that she hadn't realized she had been holding.

It wasn't him.

Breathing normally once more, she watched as a Hufflepuff female slid back into her seat. A disappointed sigh escaped Hermione before she could prevent it, catching the attention of Ron two seats away. He turned to look at her, concern etched upon his freckled features. Hermione smiled thinly at him, trying to assuage his worry. Ron wrinkled his ginger brows in doubt, but returned to his previous activity: marching parchment pawns across an imaginary chessboard.

She wrestled with the riot of emotions rollicking through her. Hermione's fingers caressed the soft, feathery tip of her quill in a half-hearted attempt to pay attention to Astronomy. She ran her fingers lightly over her quill, but her mind was more preoccupied with keeping her tears at bay.

Hermione had always prided herself on her ability to compartmentalize anything that caused her pain. _Mind over matter_ had been her mantra since before her Hogwarts days. Her mental capacity had always dictated her life: her schoolwork, her relationships, and her emotions. Hermione was a creature of logical processes and rational thought.

But some things, it seemed, proved too great for even her formidable brain.

She was not going to think about him.

A soft puff of laughter brushed past her lips, once again alerting Ron, but this time, she paid him no mind.

It was impossible not to think about Harry.

He permeated all seven years of her Hogwarts education. It had become second nature to mind Harry. It formed part of who she was, along with her books. Looking after Harry, patching him up, comforting him after his nightmares was as natural to her as breathing, something she didn't think twice about.

But now, every little touch, every gentle look had become fraught with meaning. When had it happened? Hermione remembered the time she had contracted bronchitis as a child, suddenly conscious of each breath that rattled into and out of her lungs. Had to come to that? Were her feelings for Harry just that, a disease? The burr in her chest was similar, both filled with exquisite pain.

What was it about Harry she loved so?

What was it about him, a thin, lanky seventeen-year-old, that made her heart flutter and glow with warmth?

Hermione's hands smoothed the parchment in front of her absentmindedly, her senses recalling the fire that coursed beneath his skin, the passion that had inflamed his veins.

And it wasn't because of her.

Hermione bit her lip again, willing herself to forget his taste, the life that had died beneath her lips.

She had betrayed him with a kiss.

She had seen it in his eyes.

Those eyes, the ones that had inspired not a few sighs around Hogwarts, had been filled with horror.

And fear.

She betrayed his trust.

Hermione could no longer hold back the pain that rose from her heart to trickle from her eyes. She raised her hand, hoping to catch the oblivious professor's attention and be excused to the toilets.

"Now, this star here is called Betelgeuse, and makes up the lower---"

The scrape of the door caught Watson in the middle of his lecture.

The tears froze behind Hermione's eyes.

The door slid open, and silhouetted against the light from the hallway, stood Harry Potter. 

*********************************** 

Harry stared out the dorm window into the Monday sky. It was late. His roommates had already left, and scattered around behind him was their traditional mess: jumpers, socks, trousers, and robes, all thrown about in untidy jumbles.

Harry sighed. He longed for the weekend. Saturdays were free of guilt's webs, and lately, guilt was the only thing that brought Harry to his feet every morning. On weekends, he could lie in bed, letting the world slip by; on weekdays, he forced himself to be caught in its flow. Still dressed in his pyjamas, he tucked his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth slightly, struggling to keep the voices of his conscience at bay.

_You're coming tomorrow, right?_

Harry shook the sleepy cobwebs out of his memory. The voice of his better self was all too familiar to him; it belonged to Ron. The wistfulness lingered in his memory of Ron's words, pulling at Harry, compelling him to attend class. Harry closed his eyes, trying to shut out the face of his conscience that rose up behind his lids, and to diminish the pain that accompanied her anguished eyes. The floodgates had opened as the gates of sleep lifted, inundating his mind's eye with tortured images.

Hermione's broken eyes.

Ron's tired good humour.

Their breath condensing in the late night cold as they worried about him.

The way Harry treated his friends was a lance in his side, piercing his soul. They wounded him with their persistence, and he wished that his friends would just step back.

Especially Hermione.

He was unsure of the Trio's dynamic if he should return to class. Between the hero and heroine, things could never again be the same, and the bonds that held the knight and his trusty squire together were slowly weathering away. He longed to make things right between himself and Hermione, but he didn't know how. Her feelings he couldn't possibly return. He figured that he should just go to Astronomy, for once listening to her good advice. But his presence would only remind her, would remind him, of that night in the common room that never should have occurred. It would remind them both, and it would be better for them if they just forgot the kiss that never happened.

Harry brought his fingers to his lips, wondering if time would warm the ice-cold rock of fear and distaste that settled in the pit of his stomach whenever he thought of her lips pressed against his. He hated himself for feeling that way; Hermione deserved more than that.

Guilt pressed heavily on his shoulders. It stained that Monday morning, bleeding into the room, leaving behind an indelible weight that he longed to cast off. The weight of the world was a tiresome burden, and he let the guilt drag him back down onto his bed.

He was comfortable there, for everywhere else, he had to tote the world behind him.

Here, in his bed, his could shed his burden, if only during the brief respite of sleep.

Here, he could forget.

Let Hermione forget too.

Let Ron forget.

Let everyone else forget. 

*************************************** 

He hadn't just woken up.

Hermione could tell. He was wearing cleanly pressed robes, his tie was straight, and the pleats in his trousers were neat and sharp. Harry walked through, apology in every step. He set his books on the desk and slid in next to her. Her body withdrew, trying to create as much distance as possible between them as he placed a friendly hand on her shoulder.

Surely he couldn't have forgotten so quickly?

Yet in all appearances, it seemed as though the Harry of her childhood had returned. Determination followed every line, every curve in his jaw, and in the set of his neck. He glanced sideways at her, gave a slight smile, and returned to the subject at hand.

But she noticed the clenching of his fist, the whiteness of his knuckles.

He would drive her insane.

She recalled the previous Saturday, only two days prior to today, in which the boy sitting next to her had once again walked in late. That time exhaustion had cradled every expression on his pale face. She recalled the same feeling of icy nervousness that pinged in her veins while she waited for him, the same chill that had crept over her in Watson's class awaiting his arrival.

Did she dare to hope? 

_Hermione drummed her fingers on her wrist, beating an impatient tattoo to wile the time away. Two minutes before the meeting was set to begin, and no one was there yet. It was only she, and the musty smell of the books. Like it always was nowadays._

_The seconds passed in syncopation with the rhythm of Hermione's taps and sixty beats later, Ron slid open the latch to the library and stumbled into the chair opposite her._

_"Hey," he said._

_"Hey," Hermione smiled, trying to hide the disappointment in her eyes._

_Harry. Where was Harry?_

_"I thought you said he would come," she said, striving to keep the accusatory tone out of her words._

_Ron sighed, and she saw his shoulders slump. Guilt struck her. Was Harry all she cared about? Her heart went out to her steadfast, red-haired friend._

_"I did," he said, tired. "He will." At Hermione's pained look, he continued. "You thought he would arrive on time? Not even You-Know-Who with legions of dementors could get Harry out of bed this bloody early on a Saturday morning. Come to think of it, I'm surprised I'm out of bed at this ungodly hour."_

_Hermione smiled weakly._

_Ron sighed again, mustering up the energy required in order to be the Trio's continuing pillar of strength. "He'll come, Hermione. He'll come. He'll be late, but he will come."_

He was late, but he did come.

She observed him next to her, serenely taking notes, which not even she bothered to do in Astronomy. Could the meeting have anything to do with his change in attitude?

Would they be able to salvage the tattered remains of the Trio? 

_The smell of books was overpowering in the small, unused corner of the library. It was her favourite corner, which was why she had chosen it. As she waited for Harry, falling deeper and deeper into the net of despair with every passing minute, Hermione wondered why she had even bothered to call the meeting. It was almost a shame to the memory of the Trio to have made it so official. In the past, they had always planned, schemed, and met in the library during snatches of free moments, caught like precious butterflies._

_Now, Ron had drifted off with the other Gryffindor boys: Dean, Seamus, and Neville. She was occupied with her own duties and Harry..._

_Harry had almost completely slipped away._

_The Order was now the last place, the last chance she had to remain part of Harry's life._

_She struggled with herself as they waited, clutching vainly at any handhold she could find. Her feelings for Harry were too precious to hold; she knew she should release them, yet she was reluctant, afraid that if Harry were to disappear from her life, she would become lost._

_Because without Harry Potter, there could be no Hermione Granger._

_But her weakness passed, and once again, her rationale returned. Harry did not return her affections; she would abandon them._

_But Harry her friend was harder to lose, harder to shove into the corridors of her past._

It would have to be all or nothing,_ she reasoned. _There is no going back now. We can't just forget. _I_ can't just forget. 

Hermione glanced at the tall grandfather clock in the northwest corner of the Astronomy tower. Twenty minutes left until the end of class.

She turned past Harry to look at Ron, now absorbed in pinning Hannah Abbot's braid onto the desk. An affectionate yet melancholy grin graced her face; Ron was perhaps the one person who would never change, even though the world would cave in around his fiery head. He began shifting restlessly in his seat. Hermione shook her head slightly; Ron always reacted to the passing of time the same way. He always had and always will. 

_Twenty minutes._

_It had been twenty minutes into the meeting and still no sign of Harry. Ron fidgeted in his chair across from her, frowning._

You said he would come!_ her heart wailed, but her mind put an end to such histrionic nonsense._

_She would not give in._

_But as the hour grew later and later, her hopes grew thinner and thinner, until at last, she gave up to despair._

How fast her heart healed.

It only took one brief look at Harry for the turbulent sea of emotions to ebb. But her mind was wary, knowing that it could not possibly last.

Yet, she couldn't take her eyes off of him. Off of his unusually groomed appearance, his tangibly good looks, the flush of his cheeks. 

_He was flushed and breathless when he finally stumbled into the library to take his seat between Ron and Hermione. She glanced at him, at his disheveled clothes and glassy eyes, and decided not to press him._

_He was there, after all._

_His mere presence made all of her hurts disappear._

_With trembling fingers, Hermione brought out a stack of parchments onto the table. Both Ron and Harry glanced at them curiously and Hermione took a deep breath._

_"As you might have known, Sirius fell out of touch at the beginning of the year."_

_Harry's knuckles whitened as he gripped the armrests of his chair. Ron clapped a reassuring hand on his friend's back._

_Hermione swallowed. "Our new correspondent referred to us by Sirius has just sent me a letter, suggesting that we act upon our suspicions. In his letter, he revealed very little information that we hadn't already garnered or suspected, but it adds validity to our mission." Glancing at Harry's lost expression, she said, "Let's review the articles." _

If only Harry had paid as much attention to what was happening in their world as he was paying to Astronomy. They could have gotten much more done in those short hours they had.

A prickling feeling tickled at Hermione's side and she turned to glance across the room. Draco Malfoy was staring at them; no, he was staring at Harry. An indecipherable expression crossed the Head Boy's face as he watched Harry from beneath heavy lids. Malfoy was tracing the skin of his lower lip idly, almost in time with the waving of Harry's quill.

She turned to look at Harry, who gripped the nib of his quill tighter and tighter. With a flash, she realized that he was studiously avoiding Malfoy's appraising gaze. Hermione raised her eyes to Malfoy again, who took no notice of her questioning eyes, but kept his eyes trained on Harry, like an eagle sighting its prey.

Not for the first time, Hermione wished that she could get inside Malfoy's head to see what he was thinking. Unlike Harry, who wore every feeling on his face, Malfoy carefully kept his emotions behind a lacquered facade, and only every once in a while, they betrayed themselves in his glinty grey eyes. Hermione wished she could turn the Head Boy's over-inflated skull inside out to examine its contents, for because of his position in wizarding society, Malfoy was surely privy to many more things than she and the rest of the Order. 

_"As you all know, last summer, Dumbledore was incapacited with a mysterious illness about the same time as Fudge's untimely death removed him from office."_

_There were nods from Ron and heavy silence from Harry._

_"Eleazar Zabini, Blaise's uncle, was Head of the Department of Ancient Wizarding Artifacts before he became the Minister of Magic."_

_"How?" Ron asked, biting his thumbnail. "There wasn't an election. Dad would have run if there had been one."_

_"They just wanted a Slytherin in power, someone loyal to Voldemort," Harry muttered. Ron cringed at the use of the Dark Lord's name._

_"_The Daily Prophet_ didn't say anything about his appointment, but my guess is that Zabini got the post as a result of seniority," Hermione said._

_"Your guess?" Ron asked. He sounded amused._

_"I read the paper," Hermione stated drily, "and therefore I consider myself well-informed."_

_"Yeah, but the paper only prints what the Ministry wants printed now," Harry said quietly._

_Hermione said nothing._

_Ron shrugged._

_"Anyway," Hermione continued, breaking the silence. "We have no grounds on which to indict Zabini. Despite what you say about his supporting You-Know-Who, Harry, we have no evidence to support that."_

_"I don't need solid evidence to know someone's in league with Voldemort," Harry said softly._

_Ron turned to look at his friend, slightly surprised. "Well, I agree with Harry. Zabini's a bit of a shady character. Look at what he did to my dad's office."_

_Hermione closed her eyes. The Department of the Mistreatment of Muggles had been removed, and Arthur Weasley, like many good members of the Ministry, was now without a job._

_"Isn't your father still with the Ministry, though?" Hermione asked._

_"Well, technically, 'yes,'" Ron said, "But he's 'on leave' and not too happy about it. I was thankful to get out of the Burrow at the end of the summer."_

_Both Harry and Hermione winced, recalling Mrs. Weasley's fiery temper._

_"Well, since he was instated, Zabini's been changing a lot of things in the Ministry. Offices, positions, etc. _The Daily Prophet_ hasn't printed anything, but rumours say that he's been getting his hand in at Hogwarts too."_

_Ron and Harry started in surprise._

_"McGonagall seems to be resisting so far, in my opinion, but we have had an unusual influx of new professors this year."_

_"Nott," Ron said._

_"Watson," Harry added._

_"Rochester," Hermione chimed in with a shudder. A contemplative silence fell over the three._

_"Weren't they all Slytherins?" Ron ventured._

_"Not Watson," Hermione said. "He's American."_

_"But Rochester was, and so was Nott," Harry said._

_"Blimey," Ron said softly. "Always knew those Slytherins would be the end of us." _

Harry snapped his head up.

The Slytherin's silver eyes flicked to the side as though embarrassed to be caught in such a candid moment. Harry stared at Malfoy hard before returning to his notes.

If there was one Slytherin no one could trust, it was Draco Malfoy.

Hermione looked at him in disgust. He was the son of a prominent pureblood, racist family, fabulously wealthy, and steeped in the Dark Arts. If anyone was implementing You-Know-Who's regime at Hogwarts, her first guess would be Malfoy. She was surprised when she found out that he was named Head Boy. At first, she had assumed that his father had bought that position for his son, just as he had procured his seat on the Quidditch team. But she found out later that Malfoy was not only a spoiled rich boy, he was also a smart, spoiled rich boy.

Which made Malfoy all the more dangerous.

His grey eyes wandered lazily back to the Gryffindor corner, resting briefly on her face with a smirk of contempt before sliding back to Harry, where his silvery stare settled. He raised his long legs and rested them on the desk in front of him, watching Harry with an all-perceiving gaze that reminded Hermione of Snape's glittering eyes. 

_"There's something else you should know," Hermione said slowly, unsure of how the others would react. "Dumbledore is...still alive."_

_"What?" Harry's head snapped up to meet Hermione's. "He's still...alive?"_

_"Yes," Hermione said, hesitant. She took a deep breath. "Technically, yes, he's alive."_

_"Technically?" Ron asked._

_"How long have you known this?" Harry demanded._

_"Since yesterday." Harry's green eyes bored into hers, allowing no grounds for untruths. "Yesterday was the first I knew of this."_

_"Why didn't you tell us sooner?" Harry asked. Her heart tore at the hope she saw in the depths of his eyes for the first time in several months._

_"I wasn't sure. McGonagall said---"_

_"Wait a minute," Ron interrupted. "What did you mean by 'technically?' Either he's alive, or he isn't."_

_"He's alive, but trapped in his own body. He can't speak, or move. Magical treatments so far have been unsuccessful, but I have been given a research assignment to develop a remedy based on his condition."_

_The hope that flared so shortly in Harry's eyes died._

_"Are you working with anyone?" Ron asked._

_Hermione was silent._

_"You're working by yourself?" Ron said, incredulous._

_"No," Hermione replied._

_"Then who?"_

_Hermione didn't know what to say. What the others would think. Why she would willingly spend more hours with her least favourite professor when she herself wasn't sure._

_"Professor Snape."_

"Snape?"_ Ron spluttered._

_She nodded._

_"Wait," Ron interjected again. "You've been working with _Snape_. That man is the most socially-challenged person to ever try his hand at teaching."_

_"I know," Hermione said, "But he's also very talented at Potions."_

_"It's _Snape_," Harry said, disapproval etched on his face._

_"Yes," she whispered. "But he may very well be Dumbledore's last hope."_

Snape's cure may certainly be Dumbledore's last hope if Harry did not rise to the occasion. Hermione observed him through her lashes, the sudden model student. He turned to look at her and smiled, the sweetness of it, the taste of Elysian past puncturing the shield around her heart. The face of their youth smiled softly at her, but the eyes of the man she had kissed in the common room were reflected in his sorrowful green eyes.

"Professor Watson, class had ended."

Hermione wrenched her eyes away from Harry's face. A chestnut-haired Hufflepuff stood by the door while the bald Astronomy teacher continued to lecture until the very last minute. The students had been shuffling their books and quills into their bags for the past two minutes.

Hermione got up from her seat and met Ron's eyes over Harry's head. Ron smiled at her and started talking to Seamus. Hermione was stung; when had this happened? She saw for the first time, the ever-widening gulf that spanned the distance between herself and Ron. The camaraderie that had formed her childhood was wearing away with the passage of Time. She gathered up her things and began to walk after Ron in an effort to knit the threads of her friendship back together.

"Harry?" she asked, turning over her shoulder. "Class is over."

Harry did not move, nor did he make any sign that signaled that he had heard her. He had his notes still out on his desk, but to Hermione's surprise, there was little written on his parchment. He was stroking his quill idly, his eyes fixed on a point across the room. She followed the heat of his gaze, a lifeline extended to someone she could not see, could not be.

It ended on Draco Malfoy's empty seat. 

********************************************* 

He waited.

It seemed as though Potter would always leave him hanging in the dust.

Draco waited just outside the classroom door in order to waylay Potter on the way out. He crossed his arms and leaned against the outer wall of Watson's room, watching the throng of students as they made their way out, waiting for one dark-haired, jewel-eyed boy to appear.

He glared at Weasley as the red-headed boy exited, who gave Draco a contemptuous, hateful look in return as he passed. He emerged without Granger or Potter, which struck Draco as unusual, but what was he to think in the age of the Boy Who Sulked?

Draco and Weasley did not exchange words; their mutual enmity based on years of family pride and countless generations gone by. His hatred of the red-haired Weasel was bred into him, and real. It was a pure, unfounded loathing that Draco had grown up with, unlike the resentment that smouldered in his chest whenever he thought about the Weasel's best friend. He watched Weasley walk on ahead, without waiting for the Mudblood or Potter. _Peculiar_, Draco thought as Weasley joined the other Gryffindor seventh years instead.

Sounds from Watson's classroom caught his attention once more and he disregarded the dismissible redhead. He heard Granger talking in a low voice to her speccy little boyfriend, and despite his avid curiousity, Draco suppressed the urge to eavesdrop. He would not deign to mingle in the Mudblood's affairs, no matter how much he longed to listen.

The door swung open again and Granger rushed out. She glanced at him, surprised at to stumble across a body that still waited outside Watson's classroom. She averted her eyes when she realized who it was, but not before Draco caught the glitter of tears unshed.

The Mudblood had been crying.

Envy rose in Draco's heart; he had never in seven years been able to make the Mudblood cry, but in two minutes, Potter had succeeded where he had failed.

Again.

Draco clenched his fists. _Damn you, Potter,_ Draco thought, _must you be perfect in everything you do?_

Footsteps approached the door.

Draco steeled himself to confront the Boy Who Lived. He closed his eyes, marshaled his resolve, drew in a deep breath and ----

"Harry!"

A Gryffindor seventh year called out from across the corridor.

Potter's footsteps froze.

Draco watched as a girl ran across the hall to intercept the Potter. "Hey, Harry, I'm glad I caught you. I've been wanting to talk to you about O.O.G."

"Listen, Christina," he heard Potter say, "I've told you before; I have no interest in joining your spirit club."

Draco snickered quietly from his position behind the open door.

"Look, Harry, we would really appreciate it if you endorsed the organization. Hogwarts might benefit from it; the students might find something to enjoy and take comfort in these hard times. You're the ideal patron, Harry. You're a Quidditch star, and the Boy Who Lived---" she stopped abruptly.

There was a long pause before Potter answered.

"Thanks," he said bitterly. "Just strap a lion's mask over my head and let me go perform acrobatic feats for you."

"Harry, if you don't want---"

"Of course I do, Christina," Draco heard Potter interject with false brightness. "In fact, I think I'll got put on the sparkly red skirt right now."

The girl sighed.

"All right," she said, resigned. "Good luck, Harry, whatever you do with your life." Her voice trembled and Draco saw her emerge and walk away, her gait and posture disappointed and betrayed.

Momentarily, Potter walked out of Watson's room, shuffling his books into his bag. He took no notice of Draco, who was half hidden in the shadows behind the open door.

Draco waited to be acknowledged.

But as Potter continued to walk down the corridor, Draco realized that acknowledgement would not be forthcoming. It stung him. It stung him all the more so because it was Harry Potter that did not notice him, did not recognize him, did not perceive him. It had always been Harry Potter that continued to walk ahead, completely oblivious to the Head Boy lying in wait.

Draco slammed the door shut.

Potter jumped and halted, but did not turn around.

"What is it, Malfoy?" he asked, the tense set of his shoulders belying his calm tone.

"If you don't know, then you're even thicker than I give you credit for," Draco replied, icy hate and mockery coating each word.

"If it's about detention, I've already paid my due," Potter said.

"Not according to McGonagall," Draco smirked.

Potter whirled around.

Draco relished the look of dismay that crossed Potter's face. "Yes, that's right, Potter. In light of your performance this past week, Potter, McGonagall has decided that a prolonged detention schedule is in order. Your next detention is scheduled for this Friday." He stared the other boy down, feeling some measure of vindication as he saw Potter deflate. Who was the superior one now?

"Am under whom am I serving this time?" Potter asked, obstinacy replacing his dismay. Draco stepped back involuntarily. "You? What is it, you get off by watching me polish trophies?" Potter advanced on Draco, his eyes hard, his arm tracing suggestive circular movements in the air. Draco backed away slowly, against his will. He felt a blush rise in his cheeks, and hated himself for becoming flustered in Potter's presence, whose glittering green eyes never left Draco's. He cursed his fair colouring, his silver-blond hair, his light eyes, all which betrayed all the discomfort Draco felt upon his face.

Discomfort bled away into anger, and Draco whet the edge of his voice upon his malice.

"Maybe, if we were returning to the trophy room," Draco answered, sarcasm dripping from his voice like poison from a wound. "No," he lowered his voice and narrowed his eyes. He straightened himself and stepped forward, bringing his face inches from Potter's. "I've got a better use for you."

The other boy did not blink. Draco stared back, their eyes meeting in a clash of iron wills. He had meant his words to carry a threat, but Potter seemed unfazed.

"Do it yourself, then," Potter said, his voice husky. Draco shivered involuntarily; the hate that resonated in the low timbre of Potter's voice sent shivers down his spine. The other boy drew his dark brows together in a scowl. "I don't have to listen to you."

He continued to hold Draco's gaze. _Didn't he feel uncomfortable?_ Draco wondered as the tension grew tighter between then. He felt it like a noose wrapped around his neck; he couldn't breathe, he was losing hair, and all the world faded except for Potter's unblinking eyes. If the green-eyed boy did not cut the bond between then soon, Draco would have to, before the unbearable tightness shattered in his chest.

At last, Potter wrenched away. He held the silence and turned his back on the Head Boy. Left cold, Draco rallied his defenses and aimed one last parting shot at Potter's retreating figure.

"Practice those polishing skills, Potter. Watson may want his head buffed and waxed Monday afternoon. Isabella should be able to see her reflection in it."

If Potter heard, he gave no sign. Draco strove to cling to his fleeting sense of power, but it slipped through his fingers like shadow through light, growing thinner and thinner as his enemy walked farther and farther away.

"He'll come," Draco said to himself, mustering his pride. He would not let Potter get the better of him. "He's Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. He'll honour his responsibility."

But despite Draco's outward confidence, he could not be sure. He was seeing glimpses of Potter previously unrevealed, previously hidden.

"He will come," Draco whispered.

But as he spoke into the gathering darkness, Draco wondered if the Boy Who Lived had finally died. 


	5. Veteris Vestigia Flammae

**Veteris Vestigia Flammae***

  
_Without hope we live in desire._  
-Dante, _The Divine Comedy_

Chalk tasted gritty, like defeat.

He cleaned the blackboards with the taste of defeat in his mouth while the dust of battle settled in his dark hair, aging him far beyond his seventeen years. The weight of his burden settled into the lines of Harry's face, scored by apathy, giving him a haggard appearance. Gentle clouds of dust arose as he passed the eraser over the slate surface, obscuring Harry's vision momentarily, hiding the blond boy standing behind from view.

Harry concentrated on cleaning every inch of the board in front of him, partly to avoid any criticizing remarks from Malfoy, partly to ignore the revealing, hard stares from the other boy.

"Nice hair, Potter."

Harry studiously ignored the remark and continued to clean.

"If this is the image of what you'll look like in fifty years, then perhaps you ought to die young. At least then you'll make a good-looking corpse." Harry could feel the sneer on Malfoy's face though he could not see him. Harry swept his arm over the chalkboard with broad strokes, determined not to let Malfoy get a rise out of him.

Malfoy tried again. "Don't you wish you were blond, Potter?"

"What the fuck do you mean?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

"We have more fun." Harry heard the smirk on Malfoy's voice. "And we don't show grey."

Harry put down the eraser calmly.

"Finished."

He turned around to face the smug, complacent Head Boy reveling in his victory. With some surprise, Harry saw not the hard, mocking expression he expected, but a cool, appraising smile. Malfoy held Harry's gaze a moment longer before breaking away with an uncomfortable clearing of his throat.

"Excellent."

Harry frowned as Malfoy rose from his seat at a desk in Flitwick's classroom, and watched as the other boy untangled his long legs, smoothly uncoiling his slender, lanky frame to stand up beside Harry. Malfoy's grey eyes seemed to slide about the room, backlit in the rapidly dimming sunshine. _Like a cat_, Harry thought.

Malfoy shifted slightly. "I know you're admiring my godlike visage, Potter, but this is no time to gawk. We have seven more classrooms to clean." The Head Boy crossed his arms, arching a fair eyebrow, a faint curl to his lips that might have signified a smile.

He wasn't going to deign to give Malfoy an answer. Harry turned his back on the arrogant Slytherin and marched out, not waiting to hear any more orders from Malfoy.

Out in the corridor, a brisk breeze flowed in through the open castle windows, clearing the haze from Harry's mind, cooling the heat in his cheeks produced from Malfoy's stares, the warmth that concentrated on his back and bled into his face.

Malfoy had never before made him uncomfortable. Angry, yes. Frustrated, yes. Uncomfortable, never. Malfoy raised a lot of emotions in him, always had, and probably always would. But this seemed part of the distant yet tangible past, when Harry could remember colours: the brilliant red of Ron's hair, the emerald green of the Quidditch field, and the endless azure of sky over a carefree youth. The ice and stormy grey that tinted his memories of Malfoy now became the only pink, gold, and silver glints in his monotonous, flat existence. The only technicolour face in a sepia-tinted world.

"Where do you think you're going, Potter?"

Harry turned around. "To the Potions dungeons." He didn't bother to mask the displeasure written on his face. "They're next, aren't they?"

"Didn't Snape tell you?" The sneer returned to Malfoy's face. Smug git.

"Tell me what?" The futility of his life pressed down upon Harry, centering on his brow. He just wanted to lie down, to relieve his headache, and to stave off the world around him by retreating into the comforting darkness of sleep.

"Professor Snape is conducting research. He has ordered me not to clean his classroom whilst his project continues."

"What project?"

Malfoy shrugged his thin shoulders elegantly. "Not that I would tell you, Potter." His eyes flickered as Malfoy crowed in triumph.

"You don't need to trumpet your Teacher's Toady status before me," Harry said contemptuously.

Malfoy's face briefly contorted into an expression that Harry would have termed hurt, had he believed Malfoy to be capable of such feelings. But within the next instant, the blond boy's lips twisted themselves back into a smirk.

"Better a Teacher's Toady then a Fallen Hero, eh Potter?"

Harry slammed the other boy against the corridor wall, his wand pressed against Malfoy's throat. Rage burned through Harry, the sheer magnitude of his anger sweeping over him like a tidal wave, refreshing and frightening in its intensity. Harry held Malfoy at wandpoint, but the blond Head Boy continued to look at him with hard grey eyes. The smirk was gone, but Harry's actions did nothing to erase the disdain in Malfoy's eyes.

Colour flooded back into Harry's vision, illuminating with sharp clarity the glittering strands of Malfoy's hair, the carved ivory of his cheekbones, and the metallic sparks of his silvery eyes. Harry blinked, rage replaced by wonder, amazement as the wave of emotions that rolled over him was suddenly felt for the first time in three years.

Harry dropped Malfoy and stepped back.

He couldn't speak. Harry struggled with the passions within him, fighting to control them. It was as though Malfoy smashed the lock on his heart, unleashing the fury, futility, and fear that Harry had tried so hard to hide, to suppress.

For once those silver eyes were unguarded as Malfoy stared back at him.

He wanted to look away. He wanted to, but he couldn't. The animosity that beat between the two boys held Harry in thrall with its insistent tempo, its hypnotic power drowning out all coherent thought. Hatred pounded in his temples, mingled with relief, pain, and confusion. How did he handle emotions before? When was the last time he truly felt anything?

Harry felt his shoulders slump, exhausted by the rush of adrenaline and chemicals flooding his emotive circuits.

"All right, if not the Potions dungeons, then where?"

Harry could have sworn a look of disappointment flashed briefly across Malfoy's face, but it was gone before Harry knew it had truly been there.

"Fourth floor. We haven't done those rooms yet, have we?" Malfoy's lips twisted into a derisive smirk.

"We?" Harry snorted. "What have you done?"

"Save your sorry arse, that's what, Potter. If it weren't for detention, you'd have had your trunks packed and shipped back to the Muggles before you could say _'Waddiwasi_.'"

Harry glared at the other boy, his aversion to the Slytherin keener than ever.

"Fine," Harry said, the sharpness of his voice concealing the sting he felt at having someone else save him. Of being beholden to someone else. Beholden to Malfoy. A prickling feeling of guilt began to grow before Harry could root it out.

Malfoy stared hard into Harry's eyes, with silver eyes framed by silver lashes. "We'll head up to the fourth floor classrooms, then."

Harry turned before he saw the slight curl at the edge of Malfoy's lips manifest itself into a smile. 

************************************************ 

She was alone.

Hermione wondered briefly what Harry was doing, whom he was serving detention under, if he was subject to the same piercing scrutiny as she. She wondered if another pair of eyes was fixed upon his face with as much intensity and mystery as the obsidian ones trained upon her own.

"Glad you were able to make it, Miss Granger," Snape sneered. Hermione glared. Did he think that she would not show up? "I'm gratified to see that your boyfriend's disgraceful habits have not worn off on you yet."

Hermione brought her head up high and did not deign to answer.

"Did you bring your notes?" Snape asked, with no further preamble, becoming businesslike. His voice was sharp and irritable and bore Hermione no mercy. He gazed at her with his usual expression of perpetual dissatisfaction. A flash of irritation burst behind Hermione's eyes. She knew the Potions master spared no gentle thoughts on himself, much less on others, but consequently, he demanded far beyond anyone's means. Hermione swallowed her distaste. She was there for a noble purpose. She was there to save Dumbledore's life.

And it took her mind off her dissolving friendships.

"Miss Granger," Snape pressed impatiently. "Your notes?"

"Yes," she responded simply, reaching into her bag. She hid her face behind a curtain of dark curls as she searched for her parchments, her fingertips cold and numb. At last she pulled them out, the leaves trembling slightly in her hands as she gave them to the Potions professor. He took them with a brusque sweep of his hand and began to scrutinize her work.

Hermione brought her hands to face. How could her face be so warm when her hands were so cold?

She stood there, wondering what she was to do. Snape gave her no further instructions; he simply sat at his desk, reading her meticulous notes. Her eyes lightly traced the scattered parchments on his desk, wondering if beneath the essays and homework assignments, she could find something that would arm her flailing sense of confidence with protection. Something she could use to crack that impassable façade he presented, something that could put her at ease.

She didn't trust him.

McGonagall had placed this duty into his hands, but so much was hidden behind his stony exterior. Was he truly on their side? She immediately berated herself; she trusted her mentor's judgment. But Hermione had a feeling that Snape knew a lot more than he ever revealed. She knew he had connections within the Death Eater circle. He was a valuable source of information, an asset to them. But she needed empirical evidence, proof that she could trust him.

Proof that he was truly fighting for the Light.

His dark eyes flicked up from the parchment at her.

"Well, sit down, Granger," he said tersely. He returned to his perusal of her notes.

Hermione slowly settled herself into the seat across from the Potions professor. She wanted to trust him. She wanted to be able to trust herself, to uphold her end of the fight, to keep the secrets of the Order hidden.

That was the hardest part of her assignment.

"Hmmm," Snape houghed, his expression thoughtful. He tossed her notes carelessly onto his desk and rose from his seat to work at a table strewn with mysterious ingredients. He picked up a long silver knife from the gloomy tabletop and methodically began to slice a root in front of him, apparently to prepare and bottle it for future use in antidotes and potions.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably as the professor's eyes flickered toward her every once and a while. She was at a loss; she wanted to be useful but she did not know how. What did he want? Anger coloured her cheeks, her irritation and dislike grating at her mind.

Snape raised his head from his work and stared at her, his knife flashing in the dim half-light of the candles that illuminated the cold, dark dungeon. Heat flooded her face, and she drew herself taller in her seat. Did her presence intrigue him? Was it curiousity that gleamed from his eyes? Or was it some other emotion, hooded beneath heavy eyelids and night-black irises?

"Well?" Snape snapped. "Are you going to simply sit there, Miss Granger, or make yourself useful?"

Hermione shrank unconsciously in her seat. It was strange. Around other professors, or even in Potions class, she was her usual intelligent and forthright self, but when Snape fixed his gaze on her alone, like now as she sat alone in his domain, she felt her courage dissolve. It fell away in shards, ripped apart by both his pointed silence and brusque questions. She wanted to hate him, but couldn't. She wanted to trust him, but couldn't. She wanted to run away and never return, yet she couldn't. How could she work with him when just being alone in the same room robbed her of everything that made her Hermione, Head Girl?

"Get up here then, and bottle those dried witch hazel leaves if you're not too busy," Snape said, sarcasm lining his voice as he leered at her.

Hermione rose and squared her shoulders. She walked up to the table and sat beside the Potions master as he slid the witch hazel over to her.

Hermione bowed her head as she efficiently bottled the dried leaves, hiding her face from Snape's scrutinizing gaze.

They worked in silence. 

*********************************************** 

The package was wrapped in black silk. 

He eyed it warily, knowing where such packages came from, and the types of things likely to be found inside. Only they wrapped their posts in such extravagant and ominous packaging. Noticing a small letter tucked into the folds, in a black envelope, he reached out and took it, still not opening the silk. He used a letter opener to slice the envelope open neatly, appreciating the cruel efficiency of the small blade. A piece of parchment fell onto the desk, and he picked it up, controlling the tremble in his hands. There was no salutation. 

Here is the equipment you need. Be discreet, and remember where your loyalty lies. You must not be discovered. 

He knew what the contents of the package were.

He knew what he had to do.

He was a meticulous man, and he tossed the letter and its silky wrappings into the flames burning on the small classroom hearth. Although no one had reason to suspect him, there was no harm in taking precautionary measures. 

The dim light from the flames cast his face into disturbing shadows that leapt and retreated across his face. A satisfied smile spread wickedly across his sinister expression. No one knew. The prizes…the prizes for him would be endless. They would at last come to recognize him. Never again would they mock him for his less-than-prestigious family name, for his tainted blood. Already, he was gifted by them with his position. His desk, his moderate wealth, these were spoils of the impending war. The war that hung like a plague of locusts over the world, ready to descend and devour. He knew the conflict would consume anyone not quick-witted enough to take care of themselves. He would at last avenge himself. Those who had done him wrong, they would all die, destroyed by his Master. His side was chosen, his loyalty already bought. It had never been more apparent to him than it was now, as he sat in that small room illuminated by fire, swathed in smoke from burning black silk. 

************************************************* 

He wished he would stop staring.

Harry glanced over his shoulder as he cleaned the Arithmancy classroom. The blond Head Boy was ensconced in Professor Vector's chair, surveying Harry with heavy lidded intensity. His long legs were perched atop Vector's parchments as he swung idly back and forth, the squeak-squeak of unoiled springs the only sound in the silent classroom.

Annoyance flared within Harry like a spark. Why wouldn't he just say something, that stupid prick? How could he just sit there, stewing in the heavy silence that blanketed both boys like a summer night before a storm?

Harry slammed the eraser down.

Clouds of dust arose and he choked on the billowing plumes of chalk.

Harry spasmed in a painful fit of coughing and he doubled over, trying to regain his breath. Malfoy made no move to help him, but simply sat there, arching a fair eyebrow in amusement.

When at last Harry was able to draw a lungful of air without choking, he glared at the blond Slytherin, his green eyes glittering with hate.

_You enjoyed that, didn't you, you sadistic bastard?_

_Yes, I did._ The slight quirk of Malfoy's lips told Harry what he had already known.

Harry straightened.

"Done," he said, the soft utterance loud in the silence.

Malfoy gestured elegantly to the door, but the taunting gleam in his eyes belied the courtesy of his actions.

Harry turned, his footfalls loud on the stone floor. Harry relished the sound; it broke apart the smothering silence. He threw open the door and stalked out. Malfoy emerged moments later, a sneer prominent on his face. The urge to punch Malfoy rose in Harry's throat like the taste of bile, but he swallowed it.

"Where next?" Harry asked shortly.

"The Astronomy room. And then Rochester's. And then you have a whole weekend to recover before your next detention with Watson." Glee covered Malfoy's features. Harry bit his lip, resisting his body's natural impulse to lob a good one to Malfoy's left jaw.

"Good," Harry said coldly. "Lead the way, _Bighead Boy_." 

Malfoy's nostrils flared. He clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes, affronted. Harry allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk. Malfoy brought himself closer to Harry, glaring coldly. "Fine. Then follow me, Scarhead." Harry ground his teeth. Malfoy held his stance a moment longer before breaking away to march down the corridor, his heels creating a sharp staccato on the granite floor.

So they had resorted to childish insults again. 

"Training for the ballet, Potter?" yelled Malfoy as Harry was forced to a stupid kind of twirl in midair to dodge the rogue Bludger. 

Harry laughed softly to himself, sardonic chuckles escaping his throat. They had been silly, sophomoric insults, small pinpricks that only increased his irritation of Malfoy. And now that they were both older, they had honed their insults against their hatred. Sharp knife-stabs that now wounded and hurt.

Malfoy stopped in front of Watson's classroom and turned.

"Here you go, Potter. Go right ahead."

Harry gave Malfoy a withering look and brushed past the Head Boy hard. Malfoy grinned. Harry reached for the handle of the door when it turned by itself.

Harry jumped back in surprise as the door slid open and out stepped Professor Rochester.

"Mr. Potter," Rochester said, slightly startled. "Mr. Malfoy," he acknowledged the blond Slytherin.

"Professor," Malfoy inclined his head slightly in return.

"What are you doing here?" Harry and Rochester asked at the same time. Rochester glanced at Harry sharply.

"Well, Mr. Potter?"

"He's serving detention with me, Professor," Malfoy answered. Harry looked at Malfoy. Malfoy glanced briefly at Harry out of the corner of his silvery eyes before turning to face his teacher.

"I see," nodded Rochester, glancing down the corridor. "Just the two of you?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied. He recoiled slightly away from the smell of cigarette smoke that hung faintly about the Transfiguration professor's robes. "I'm supposed to clean the blackboards in the classrooms, sir."

"Very good, Mr. Potter. Well then, why don't the two of you go on and finish the other classrooms?"

"But I need to clean the Astronomy room, Professor," Harry answered. He made a motion to enter the classroom, but Rochester stepped neatly in front of him.

"That's not necessary, Mr. Potter. Professor Watson's classroom has already been cleaned."

Harry observed the slim professor with hard eyes. Rochester stared back, unruffled.

"Come on then, Potter," Malfoy said. "Hurry up. You should be glad there's one less room to clean." He smiled at his teacher. "Thank you, Professor."

Rochester nodded. "Don't be out too late, boys. I'll see you both in class on Monday." He turned and continued down the hall, taking his scent of smoke with him. Harry stared at his retreating back, unsure of what to make of him.

"Come along, Potter," Malfoy said irritably. "I want to get back to my common room before the next year." Malfoy stalked on ahead down towards the Transfiguration room.

Harry glanced at the open Astronomy room door. The room was dark and empty. Harry frowned and stepped closer.

There was a lingering smell of smoke. 

************************************************** 

She had finished the witch hazel.

Hermione gazed at the Potions professor from beneath her eyelashes, wondering if she was to be excused. She was more than slightly annoyed; she had just wasted about an hour of her time bottling dried witch hazel when they should have been working on a cure for Dumbledore.

"Um, Professor?"

"Yes, Miss Granger?" Snape snapped, continuing to slice the mystery root impassively.

Hermione stiffened.

"I was wondering if I am to be excused, or if you need me for anything else?" she said, striving to keep her voice noncommittal.

Snape continued to viciously slash the root on the work table.

Anger bubbled within Hermione. She knew Snape held her in contempt, as he did nearly member of her House, but she at least expected him to treat his work partner with a little courtesy. Snape stared at her, the silver knife flashing he worked. Hermione held her breath. He was going to cut himself if he wasn't careful.

"Would you like to leave, Miss Granger?" he asked, his voice uninflected. Hermione watched his hands, entranced as the silver knife edged closer and closer to his fingertips.

"If I am no longer needed."

Snape held his silence and her stare.

"Is there anything you would like me to do for Dumbledore?" she asked when the silence grew even more uncomfortable.

"What _can_ you do, girl?" he asked, the sneer back in his voice. "What do you know? Go back to your common room. I don't know why Minerva saddled me with you. I don't need an assistant."

The cauldron burst.

"I was selected by Professor McGonagall because I am the best Potions student in this school!" Hermione burst out indignantly. Snape grinned, a horrible twisting of his lips. She felt her face flush and hated herself for rising to Snape's jibes. "And I can help. I may have even found a lead, one that no one has yet considered!"

"Really, Miss Granger? And what might that be?" Snape asked, his sneering polite insincerity worse than his taunts.

"That perhaps his ailment isn't even magical in nature. That it could be Muggle condition!"

Snape was taken aback by her outburst. The knife clattered against the tabletop.

"Do you mean, Miss Granger, that perhaps we've gone about Professor Dumbledore's condition the wrong way?" he asked sharply.

Her courage died upon her lips. Hermione froze, her words checked by the intensity of Professor Snape's eyes.

"Y-yes," she stammered.

"And on what grounds do you have for this presumption?" Snape asked, annoyed that this idea had not occurred to him before. "What do you know about Dumbledore's condition that we do not? In fact, what do you know about Professor Dumbledore's state at all?"

Hermione opened her mouth and then flushed.

"I…I saw a parchment on your desk, Professor, one that listed Professor Dumbledore's symptoms." Snape lifted a dark eyebrow, but Hermione forged on ahead. "They seemed strangely familiar."

"His illness has no parallel to any magical ailment," Snape snapped, interrupting Hermione. She glared at him, but continued.

"His illness might have sounded familiar because they are Muggle in nature. I thought it would have been prudent to owl my parents; they have several friends who are doctors."

"You exposed Dumbledore's status to your _parents_?" Snape asked. His disapproval and distrust were reflected in his coal-black eyes.

"N-not exactly," Hermione said, stumbling over her words slightly. Snape crossed his arms. "I told them it was for a school project. I merely asked if the symptoms were familiar and that if they could cross-reference it for me in some Muggle medical manuals for a disease that fit."

"Hmmm," Snape harrumphed, regarding Hermione with suspicion.

She narrowed her eyes and squared her jaw. She would show him; she would show him that she was not merely an assistant, that she could hold her own in the race to save Dumbledore's life.

"I received a response this morning," she said, starting to rummage through her bag for the note. Snape held out his hand and Hermione kept her exasperation in check as she placed the neatly folded note into Snape's hand.

He gave her a disdainful look before opening the letter. 

_Hermione, _

_So happy to hear you are doing well, you know how proud I am of you! I received your owl two days ago. I asked Carol and Mark about those symptoms and they said that they are nearly identical to those of a person suffering from a stroke. Muscular incapacitation like you described, according to this manual, is similar to the paralysis usually found in a victim of a stroke, but in this case it is on both sides of the body. They have lent me their medical manual, so I have included copies of the relevant pages. Hope this helps and see you over Christmas holidays in a few months. _

_Love, _

Mum 

Hermione watched as Snape scanned her Mum's letter quietly. He quickly read through the manual pages before turning to her.

"So you think that Professor Dumbledore suffers from a Muggle illness?" he spat, although she detected a note of grudging admiration in his eyes.

"W-well," Hermione began, "perhaps not precisely."

Snape raised his eyebrow again.

"Not precisely, Miss Granger? Do elucidate that statement."

Hermione hesitated. Snape's dark eyes bored into her face, expecting an answer she was unwilling to give. Although she knew that he was aware of the Order's suspicions about a conspiracy in the Ministry, or perhaps was privy to the actual conspiracy itself, she was reluctant to trust him. A Death Eater who dealt for both sides.

"Being as the symptoms are similar, and not _identical_, it gives me cause to believe that the condition is not entirely self-wrought, as it is in most Muggle patients."

"Indeed," Snape smirked. He studied Hermione for a moment before asking, "So, what would be the motivation for inflicting such a curse on Professor Dumbledore? If it is a curse." He stared at Hermione.

She quailed slightly. It felt like a test; Snape was probing her mind, trying to perhaps mislead her into giving the wrong answers.

"My mother sent this with the letter," Hermione said instead, bringing out a few sheets of paper from her cloak. "It lists a few of things Muggles use to help stroke patients recover. I thought that it might be useful in developing a potion for Professor Dumbledore."

"You are avoiding the question, Miss Granger," Snape said coldly. "Do you believe there is significance to your discovery?" He inclined his head slightly to indicate that she was to the set the pages before him.

Hermione bit her lip, weighing her next words carefully.

"The sudden removal of Minister Fudge and Professor Dumbledore within the very same week has brought me to believe---to conclude that perhaps they were removed as points in a larger conspiracy."

Snape glanced at her sharply. Hermione said no more, trying to gauge his reaction.

"Do you believe the Ministry is involved?" he asked harshly.

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but then thought the better of it. Snape's probing stares stabbed at her.

"I asked you a question, Miss Granger. Do you believe the Ministry is involved?"

What did he want her to say? Hermione bit her lip again, nervously casting about for a way to circumvent the professor's demands.

"Well, they don't seem to be very concerned about finding out what went wrong with either Fudge or Dumbledore," she said cautiously.

"No, they are not." Snape sighed, a curiously vulnerable action that brought Hermione to attention. "Nor do they care to report the Muggle killings happening across Britain."

"Muggle killings?" Hermione gasped.

Snape observed her from under dark lashes. "I had thought, Miss Granger, that with your connections to _Muggles_ you might have been aware of this."

Hermione wondered if he meant to insult her or merely warn her.

"No, I am not," she replied. Snape rose from his seat at the table and crossed over to his desk. He drew out two publications and tossed them in front of Hermione. By the immobile photographs, Hermione knew that they were Muggle newspapers. She raised her eyes in surprise to the Potions professor.

"_The London Daily_ and the _Gloucester Citizen_," she said, unsure of what to make of this new development.

"That is correct, Miss Granger," Snape said sardonically. "I also have a subscription to _The Daily Prophet_ and _The International Wizarding Herald Tribune_. Neither of those magical publications has printed a single word about this," he said viciously, stabbing the paper on the table in front of Hermione. She leaned closer to read the headline in the _Gloucester Citizen_:

**Family of Five Found Dead. Cause Still Unknown. Police at a Loss.**

"On the morning of September the twenty-third, police broke into the house of Mr. Peter Simms of Chipping Sodbury after reports from his office regarding a two-week absence," Hermione read. She looked up at the angry professor, who motioned for her to continue. "It is said that a colleague of Mr. Simms, a Fellow of his from Cambridge, noticed Mr. Simms's disappearance after Mr. Simms failed to appear at a lunch date. Subsequent telephone calls to the Simms' house were not answered and Mr. Parson, his colleague, made inquiries at Mr. Simms's work, who reported back that Mr. Peter Simms had been missing for the past two weeks. The police were hailed and the morning of September the twenty-third, they found the bodies of Mr. Simms, his wife, his two children, and his maid. The doctors are at a loss as to the cause of the deaths, as there was no sign of physical trauma and all the members of the Simms household were in perfect health at the time of death."

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath. She raised her head to the professor to find that he had been observing her with curiousity.

"Those were not isolated cases, Miss Granger," Snape said. "There were six other deaths: two in London, three in Oxford, and one as far north as Durham. All found exactly as the family described here."

"Do you think these deaths are related to the fate of Dumbledore and Fudge?" Hermione whispered.

Snape looked at her strangely.

"I think it best not to voice any unfounded suspicions about the Ministry, no matter what my personal thoughts may be," he said sharply. Hermione jumped back a little in surprise. "However---" he began. Hermione waited for him to finish, but he changed the subject abruptly. "If you do not believe Dumbledore's stroke is the natural result of his great age, then what do think his condition to be the product of?" The sneer was gone from his voice.

"Perhaps," Hermione ventured. "Perhaps the exact parts of the brain that malfunction during a stroke could be altered with magic." She waited, but Snape gave no sign of skepticism. She continued, her voice gaining in confidence. "Thus, a very real illness is created, but with no magical evidence."

Snape did not reply, and Hermione felt as though she had won a small victory against the exacting professor.

"Then whoever cast the spell must be familiar with Muggle medicine and science," Snape said.

Hermione halted. She had not thought of that.

Snape furrowed his dark brows in contemplation. Hermione stood off to the side, unsure of what she was to do now.

After a long moment, Snape turned to her and dismissed her.

"You are excused, Miss Granger." He waved his hand at her, and Hermione turned to leave, curiously disappointed.

"Wait," she heard his say. She looked over her shoulder at him.

His face was inscrutable as he said, "You've helped perhaps more than you know, Miss Granger."

A small glow began inside Hermione and she smiled softly.

"Oh, and before I forget," the leer returned to his face. "Crush those cloves and bottle them before our next meeting. They're commonly used in Revival Potions. It may prove useful to us."

The glow was extinguished.

Hermione glared at the Potions master, grabbed the proffered items, and stalked out of the room, not daring to turn around unless that contemptuous smirk unraveled her composure.

She had gone from Equal Partner to Teacher's Assistant.

She would show him.

She would prove that she was a brain to contend with.

She always did enjoy a good challenge. 

********************************************* 

Harry couldn't take it any longer.

All while he was cleaning Rochester's classroom, Malfoy had sat in the professor's chair, not saying a word. The absence of his usual taunts unnerved Harry, as did the Head Boy's unrelenting stares. The heat of Malfoy's gaze burned holes into Harry's back, causing his face to flush and perspire slightly, yet he had the urge to cover himself with his cloak, to wrap himself in its dark folds, to escape Draco Malfoy's inexorable eyes.

Harry threw down his eraser and turned to face him.

"You're not finished, Potter," Malfoy drawled, smoothing down the back of his head in an unconscious imitation of Professor Rochester. "You have three more blackboards in this classroom to clean." A lazy smile traced the Head Boy's lips, contrasting greatly with the flinty hardness of his eyes.

"Would you _stop_ that?" Harry asked irritably, balling his cold palms into fists.

Malfoy raised his fair brows. "Stop _what_ exactly, Potter?"

"What you were doing," Harry said.

"I wasn't doing anything, Potter," Malfoy responded, a slight smirk at the edge of his mouth.

But that was precisely the problem. Malfoy wasn't doing anything, and consequently Harry did not know how to handle the naked silence between them.

Harry whirled around again. He picked up the fallen eraser and began to clean Rochester's untidy scrawl off the blackboard in front of him.

"If my silence bothers you, Potter, then perhaps you'd like me to tell a few jokes," called Malfoy from his chair, "What do you call a mass of Mudbloods falling out of the sky?"

Harry continued cleaning.

"Come, Potter, you don't know?"

Harry didn't answer.

"Pollution, Potter, pollution." Malfoy laughed raucously. "Very good, eh Potter? I made that one up myself."

"A stellar wit you have there, Malfoy," Harry said flatly. "Did your father buy that for you too?"

Harry heard Rochester's chair scrape the stone floor.

"Leave my father out of this, Potter." Malfoy's voice was suddenly much closer, almost at his ear.

Harry shrugged and continued to wipe all traces of notes off the board.

"My father has given me much in life, but I have had to work to earn things myself," Malfoy said. "You don't know what I've had to go through."

"Oh, like what, Malfoy?" Harry asked, disgusted. "You actually had to lift your finger to brush your hair? No, of course not. You wouldn't want to soil your pretty little hands."

Harry saw Malfoy's hand fly to his wand. Harry stared him down, daring Malfoy to draw his wand, challenge sparkling in his green eyes.

"I was born to privilege, Potter, and with that comes specific obligations*. Obligations to my family." Malfoy's voice dropped low, hatred resonating deep within his throat.

"I see," Harry said sarcastically. "Duty to your family name, upholding your family honour and whatnot. Get out of the sixteenth century, Malfoy."

"And what would _you_ know, Potter?" Malfoy snarled. "You who can't even honour the bond he has with his so-called _friends_," he spat. "You hide away in your little hole, unable to face the world and the responsibility placed on your shoulders. You're a fucking _coward_, Potter." 

Harry made a sudden violent movement at Malfoy. Malfoy cringed and threw up his hands. Harry stopped his punch mid-swing. Harry had been called a great deal of names in his life: midget, Specs, shrimp, but he had never been called a coward. He was a Gryffindor; bravery characterized his House.

"Look at you," Harry said, a disgusted expression crossing his face. Malfoy looked up from his protective crouch. "You can't even defend yourself, you pathetic prat. Not quite so sure of ourselves are we, without Crabbe and Goyle to champion us?"

Malfoy reddened, his silver eyes widening with anger.

_Thwack!_

Harry staggered back. He brought his hand to his jaw, where a sharp pain lingered.

Malfoy had punched him.

Harry threw himself at the Head Boy with a vengeance, feeling freed at last. The two boys threw punches at each other left and right, swinging wildly in their fury. Harry landed a few on Malfoy's stomach before the Slytherin retaliated with a swift uppercut to his chin, knocking Harry against the desks in the classroom and onto the floor.

Before Harry could recover, Malfoy was on top of him, swinging madly, catching Harry on the shoulder and chest. Harry brought his leg between the two and kicked Malfoy away, who landed with a thud on the floor beneath the blackboard. He rushed Malfoy before he could rise, crashing onto the floor with Malfoy pinned beneath him. The blond boy struggled, punches forgotten as both seventeen-year-olds wrestled for dominance. Malfoy kicked away from the wall, rolling Harry over. Harry thrashed about, trying to regain the upper hand.

Thud! Smack! 

Harry doubled over, the wind knocked out of him. He elbowed Malfoy hard across the face and rolled away from the howling Head Boy, struggling to catch his breath.

Both boys were curled up in their respective corners, recuperating. Harry heaved himself to his feet, feeling his breath return. Malfoy was still on the floor, nursing a purpling eye. Malfoy brought himself to his feet as well, breathing hard and glaring at Harry out of his good eye.

Without a word the two boys rushed each other again, grabbing any part of his enemy's body that he could: fistfuls of a cloak, a jumper, anything within reach. Harry had Malfoy in a headlock while the Head Boy kicked feebly at Harry's feet. Shifting his weight, Malfoy threw Harry over his shoulder and brought him crashing against the surface of the desks, bringing Malfoy with him. The two rolled across the desktops, breathing hard, vying for the position of dominance.

At last, Harry had Malfoy pinned beneath him and the other boy ceased struggling. The two boys glared at each other. Malfoy glared at him, his stare icy and full of stabbing hatred. Harry stared back, his glasses askew and bent.

Suddenly, Malfoy shoved Harry away and got up. A strange look crossed his face and Harry wondered if he had hurt Malfoy worse than he thought. Malfoy looked at him, his silver eyes unguarded, vulnerable, and fearful.

"Malfoy, are you all ri---"

"Fuck off, Potter." Malfoy didn't meet his eyes again. He collapsed into a nearby chair, resting his head against hand in a defeated pose.

Harry looked around the destroyed classroom.

"Maybe we should clean up---"

"I said _fuck off, Potter_," Malfoy said, not looking up.

Harry frowned, and limped toward the Head Boy.

"Look, I---"

Malfoy jumped to his feet in a flurry of black robes. He shoved a few desks aside and advanced on Harry.

"I said, _Go. Now_." Malfoy's voice was low and dangerous.

Harry began to slowly back away towards the door.

"I said Go!" Malfoy roared, picking up a chair and throwing it to the side.

Harry turned and left. But once he was outside the classroom, he chanced one last look at Malfoy, who was sitting alone in the Transfiguration room, head in hands looking desperately unsure and ready to cry. 

*traces of an ancient flame


	6. The Prince

Chapter Six: 

The Prince

_It is better to be feared than loved_. –Niccolo Macchivelli

There was a thud.

Pansy Parkinson halted her intricate cosmetic routine and glanced warily over her shoulder towards the stairs leading up from the girls' dormitories.  The loud noise of something considerably large, perhaps even person-sized, falling onto the floor echoed around the Slytherin common room.  Pansy rolled her eyes.  The echo was the most unfortunate aspect of living in a dungeon, discounting the dank, close air and the almost complete absence of windows, of course.

She had awakened hours earlier than her housemates, and thus was the only person conscious when the thud that came from the general direction of the Head Boy's private room echoed above her head.  Never one to pass up an opportunity for mockery when one landed at her feet, she drew her dressing gown tighter about her against the cold and ran up the steps towards Draco's room.

He was on the stone floor when she opened his door, an uncomfortable tangle of silk, linen and his own arms and legs.  Draco was still kicking off the black sheets and straightening his pajamas when she finally opened her mouth to speak, a bit breathless and not a little disconcerted. 

"Fuck.  What the hell are you doing here?" Draco spat, standing up awkwardly in the pile of linens.  She noted how he had somehow wrestled out of his black silk pajama top during the night and the flush of being caught in an uncompromising position stained his cheeks.

"Oh Draco, are you all right?"  Pansy rushed toward the flustered Head Boy, adopting the simpering look she always used with him.

"I'm fine," Draco barked, his blond hair ruffled and messy.  Pansy stopped for a moment to admire how the candlelight behind him shone through his silvery hair like a halo.

"Are you sure?  Did you hurt yourself?  It looks as though you gave yourself a black eye.  I'll go---"

"I'm _fine_," Draco snapped, brushing away her solicitous hands and obsequious looks.

Pansy fell back, crushed.  It was always Draco's way, shoving her aside, never giving her advances a second look.  She scowled and retaliated, drawing her pride about her.

"Well, what the hell were you doing on the floor? What did you do, fall out of bed?"  When the Head Boy did not reply, the answer dawned on the female Slytherin.  An unpleasant smirk crept its way across her already unpleasant pug face. "You _did_ fall out bed!" 

"Shut up, Parkinson," Draco said, his voice tight.  Draco's hands curled into fists at his side as he watched her laugh. 

Pansy shook with undisguised mirth, her hand still on the doorknob.  A long time ago, before their world had changed, before adolescence and the passage of years had altered their hearts and lives, Pansy would have obeyed Draco Malfoy's every whim.  She would have given anything to be the dog at his feet, following his every gesture like a trained hound, only for a brief look or a kind word.  Now the dog in Pansy had gone feral, biting at the hands that fed her, as the bitterness of unrequited love hardened her heart.

"Did ickle Draco have a widdle nightmare?" she taunted him in a child's lisp.  "Was he dweaming about the scawy monsters in his spacious closet?"

"No," Draco said testily.  "I did _not_ have a nightmare."  His voice was hard as he picked up the sheets and tossed them back onto the four-poster bed that was centerpiece of his room. "Now get out," he commanded imperiously, his finger pointed to his door, expecting her to crawl away with her tail between her legs.  Pansy obstinately stood her ground, challenging careless demands in Draco Malfoy's face.

"I don't think I will," she said, as if she were announcing some monumental decision.  The shock of her statement betrayed itself in Draco's expression before it closed off, cutting short her feeling of triumph.  Draco merely rolled his eyes and tossed his bedclothes angrily onto his large bed.  Pansy narrowed her eyes and began to walk slowly about the Head Boy's private room.

She tested his reaction as she cautiously approached the large chair in the corner.  His face expressed nothing as he continued to shove his sheets into a somewhat orderly pile for the houseelves to clean up.  Pushing her boundaries further, she flopped down in the dark plush chair and grinned wolfishly as he tensed.  She knew it was his Favorite Armchair, delivered this year from the Manor to furnish his new room after his appointment as Head Boy.  And Pansy knew also that nobody, _nobody_, but a Malfoy graced his pureblooded self on The Armchair.

When the bedclothes were reasonably tidy and ready for house elf ministrations, Draco whirled around.  "What do you want, Pansy?"  His grey eyes bore into her face.

"You know what I want, Draco," Pansy replied, striving to keep her voice calm.  There was something about Draco Malfoy that unnerved her, as much as it thrilled her.  The full force of his appeal struck Pansy like an avalanche, and as those silvery eyes slid and skated over her face and settled on her own, much darker eyes, she felt her resolve freezing upon her lips.  Pansy tried to recall the golden-haired Adonis of her youth and rallied her defenses.  "You owe me some explanations."

Draco's face was impassive as he stared at her, revealing nothing.  She felt whatever hope, whatever faith she had in the next Prince of Darkness flutter and die within her.  She fought down the forlorn longing that rose to darken her expression and waited for his answer.

"What makes you think I would owe _you_ anything?" he replied dismissively with an imperious tilt of his chin.

Pansy grew upset, her voice shrill.  "Are you denying who you are?" she asked, her adoration of him slipping away beneath her feeling of betrayal.  "You are a Malfoy.  Your family holds high positions in the Ministry, your father is a close confidante of the Dark Lord himself!  And you, as heir to the Malfoy line, are forgetting your duty to us.  Why does my father still waste away in Azkaban when men like your father hold our world between their fingertips?  We are loyal, Draco.  I am loyal.  I lo---I am loyal to you."

Draco sat there on his unmade bed with a haughty, princely air.  "Father has not told me anything," he said simply.

When she had still worshipped him, this would have been answer enough.

"I don't believe you, Draco Malfoy," Pansy said.  "You know more than you reveal and you hide it from us. I know things about you.  I hear you.  I _see_ you."

"What do you know?" Draco demanded, whipping his head around to face her.  "What do you _think_ you know?"  Pansy saw that her words had struck a chord with him.  "There is nothing, _nothing_, do you understand?"  Pansy cowered back in the armchair, startled by the unguarded anger and fear in Draco's eyes.  She didn't think he was talking about the Rising.  There was something else hidden within him, but before she could discern it, before she could hound it out for her own uses, the fear disappeared like a light.  Draco recovered, and presently, a smile graced his lips.

"You know nothing, Pansy Parkinson.  And I owe you nothing." Draco paused for a moment, his words giving him control. "Now run along and finish applying your war paint, or whatever you are bent upon calling it today."

"You are such a bastard, Draco." Her voice was sullen, and she made no move to vacate the premises.  He smirked at her until she stood up.  "Fine," she said, her voice bitter.  "Fine.  I'll go.  I'll go and tell the other Slytherins.  I'll go tell them about how you and Harry Potter---"

"What about Potter?" Draco demanded quickly, rising from his bed to tower over Pansy.

She stopped momentarily, taken aback by Draco's hasty interruption and sudden outburst.  She had always been a little frightened of him, a little frightened of his beauty, of his power, and of his repressed sexuality.  Such a combination could prove deadly for some.  She gathered her wits about her and finished her threat.

"About how you _lost_ to him in a fistfight last night.  Oh don't look so surprised, Draco, I saw you come in after detention last night.  I was still awake in the common room, but you were so preoccupied you didn't notice me."  Pansy stared at him, hatred in her voice.  "You never notice me," she finished, her voice low.

Draco looked at her, appraising her for what appeared to be the first time.  He gave a small, derisive laugh and sat himself back down on his bed.  "What is your proposal then?"  He gazed insistently at her, expression swept clean of its usual contempt.  She sensed a kind foreboding within him and saw it beading in slight pearls across his forehead.  She smiled gleefully.  Something must have disturbed him last night, some nightmare demon that clung to his memory and left him distraught and out of balance.  Usually when Draco was angry and flustered, his emotions were focused, a battering ram of pure iron that caused people to quickly jump out of his path as quickly as they could. That was the way he liked it.  She leaned forward to inspect her housemate's expression.

"What?" Draco asked, his voice hardening, his way of hiding the rising panic that he was feeling.  This did not escape Pansy's notice.  Was he so unsettled because of some dream?  Or was there some deeper secret that Draco Malfoy was hiding?

She noticed how his hands were clenched in his bedsheets, trembling slightly.  Her eyes traveled from his shaking hands to his bruised eye and then she saw it.

She saw it in his face.  Something new.  Something unexpected.

Pansy lifted an eyebrow, and Draco knew.

"If you have nothing to say, Parkinson," he drawled, breaking the silence.  "Then why don't you---"

"No, wait," she interrupted. "There is something I want from you.  My proposal is this: you know what is coming.  I want to be assured of my safety.  I want---"

"To go the way of your father?" Draco laughed derisively.

"Sod off, Malfoy."  Never before had she called him merely by his last name.  She was struck by her own brazenness.  

Seeing her hesitation, Draco smirked.

"Are you sure you don't want sexual favors, Pansy?" he taunted, regaining his composure.  "I was sure that was what you were going to ask me for, and I don't doubt it would be pleasureable for at least one of us."

Pansy strove to keep the tears from glittering in her eyes.  He knew, of course.  He knew, that bastard, how much those words would hurt, and how tempting it would be for her, to grasp at a mirage that could never be.  But she hid her tears and continued, business-like.  "Listen, whatever happens, I want you to tell me if I am going to be in danger.  My father is obviously not under your protection any longer, otherwise he would not be in wizard prison."  She got up and walked closer to him, let her hands lightly touching his bare chest.  "Draco, I want---I want to be kept in the circle.  If you withdraw your support, I have nowhere to go."  She lowered her head.  "Don't abandon me."

"Let me get this straight," Draco said, pulling back out of Pansy's tentative touch.  "If I promise to put in a good word with my father and his old boys and drop you a bit of a line if you make, say, the top 20 list of their Most Likely to Kill Sometime Next Week list, you will promise to not let anybody know about this---this morning?"

"And perhaps some other things too," she said softly, slyly.   She raised her head.  "Do we have a deal?"

He jerked even farther away from her.  "I will let you know if I hear anything," Draco said, turning abruptly and sliding off the bed, out of her reach.  He sauntered over to the door and held it open for Pansy. "And a have a good day, Miss Parkinson."  His eyes shot daggers at her, quashing any thoughts she might have had of staying.  Turning to face him, she marched towards the exit.

Before she left, she turned to face the tall Head Boy, and ran her fingers lightly over his bruised eye.

"I hate Harry Potter," she said honestly.  "I hate what he's done to you.  What he's doing to you."

He shut the door in her face.

*********************************

A black owl in flight was a beautiful thing. 

He watched it wing towards the school from the horizon, from the east, emerging from the fiery sky, where the dawn had risen a few hours ago.  A day that had broken over a new order.  He watched as the bird swooped, rose and settled into a comfortable glide, riding the thermal winds to its destination.  A horrible smile settled on his lips and he closed the window.

The owl was not delivering anything to _him_, which could only mean one thing.

It had begun.

The Rising.

He shuddered.  For months their eyes had never left him, watching him day and night, haunting his steps, assuring his loyalty to them.  Now those eyes reached into the very soul of Hogwarts, penetrating deep within what had been magical sanctuary.  An insane grin crossed his face.  And he had been their aide, their lens into this Muggle-loving world.  The students would not know they were being monitored, not until it was too late. Still grinning, like a tiger with blood on its teeth, he turned to the ever-increasing pile of student scrolls on his desk.  He would work on them a bit before heading down to breakfast.  Undoubtedly, this would be a long weekend.

********************************

The porridge was flat and tasteless, just like everything else around him.

Harry spooned half-heartedly through his breakfast cereal, shoveling more oats onto the tabletop than in his mouth.  His hadn't gotten much sleep the night before and he could feel the effects taking their toll on his body.  His lids felt heavy, his features swollen, although the puffiness of his face could have been a product of his late-night scuffle with Malfoy.

"Eat, Harry."

Harry turned to see Hermione's worried brown eyes.  She bit her lip and tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder.  Harry tried to smile back, tried to reassure her, but could not find the energy to do so.

"How about a spot of sausage, mate?" Ron asked, dropping a couple into Harry's bowl.

"Ugh, porridge and sausage," laughed Seamus.  "Might as well give him chips and catsup."  The Gryffindor boys chuckled with him, stuffing their faces with good appetites.

Harry smiled weakly at them, but was unable to enjoy their good humour.  Fatigue had settled over him, rendering him unable to lift his spoon, or even his head.

"Now what's that bloody no-good prat doing?" Seamus muttered.  Harry raised his eyes.

"Who, Seamus?" asked Dean.

"Malfuck, who else?  Look at him, torturing poor Hufflepuff first years.  Yeah, that's right, Pretty Boy, hold your head up.  Makes you feel more like a man, eh, being able to scare off first years?  You pathetic fuck."  Seamus murmered disapprovingly.

Ron looked up from his food and paused with his fork halfway to his mouth.  "Are you talking about Malfoy?" he asked, before shoving another spoonful of porridge into his face. "Malffgh shh awghu bestghd." 

Hermione looked disgusted and jabbed him playfully with her unused fork.  "Don't talk with your mouth full!"

Ron swallowed and repeated, "Malfoy is always a bastard.  It's his hobby, since he doesn't really have any other talents."

Harry mustered the energy to fix his gaze upon the blond Head Boy.  Malfoy approached the Slytherin table, giving Pansy Parkinson a wide berth.  He held himself differently, carefully, as though a single false move could break his fragile bones.  Harry smiled with grim satisfaction, knowing that due to his punches Malfoy probably wasn't going to be able to sit down for a week.

"Oh Malfoy's got plenty of talents," Seamus waved Ron off.  "You know, he's able to offend people with a single look, he can run away and scream like a girl, and I bet you he probably holds the world record for the being the sorriest little wanker you ever saw."  Ron, Dean, and even Neville laughed at that.

"I don't know," Harry said softly, almost to himself.  "He was acting really…odd last night."

Ron chose not to respond to Harry's comment, merely remarking, "Well, mate, I'm glad you decided to come eat with us this morning. It's been awhile, you know…" 

Ron's voice faded into the greyness that defined Harry's world, as the only sound that filled his ears was the rhythmic thud of his heart and the soggy crunch of his breakfast.  Harry watched as Malfoy spooned himself a bowl of porridge, the movement cultured and refined, and suddenly Harry was overwhelmed with a feeling of hatred.  Hatred for everything that Malfoy stood for, hatred for his appointment to Head Boy that inflated his already ballooning ego, and most of all, hatred for the pity he inspired within Harry.

The porridge began to taste sour in Harry's mouth.

"Harry." 

He heard Hermione's voice as if it were at the end of a long tunnel.

"Harry."

It grew insistently louder.

"Harry," Hermione persisted. "Are you all right?  Harry?" She punctuated her question with a gentle jab from her fork. 

Harry turned around to face her, her face emerging from the greyness of the Great Hall, concerned and anxious.  He shook himself as if emerging from a daze.  Suddenly, the whole room seemed a dizzying vortex of sound and color, swirling around the complacent form of Malfoy.  Harry blinked and his vision returned to its normal state, with students laughing and chatting over breakfast.  Unconsciously, Harry brought his hand up to lightly touch the bruise on his jaw.  An impromptu healing spell had restored the appearance but the bone was still tender.  The gentle sweep of his fingers over the injured jaw aroused memories of the unrestrained, overpowering emotion of the night before, Malfoy's righteous anger, and suddenly, the room came into sharper focus while he thought. 

A flurry of wings filled the room, interrupting his reverie and student's faces turned to the ceiling, awaiting, hoping, or expecting something. Harry scanned the air, and caught a glimpse of an owl heading straight for him.  The sight caught him by surprise as he wasn't expecting a package or a message from anyone. Sirius, who had frequently sent him short letters, had disappeared last year and he would sooner expect Voldemort to show up at Hogwarts front door wearing a tea cozy and a sign that read "I Love Muggleborns" than expect the _Dursleys_ to send him any sort of package.  However, the great tawny owl dropped an off-white envelope into his hands, an envelope which was sealed with an unfamiliar design of seven stars.  Harry frowned, the symbol tugging at some secret buried deep within the clamor of his brain.  Shrugging the feeling off, Harry opened the letter, and read it quickly.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We offer our condolences.  S. Black, your former guardian, is now missing in action.  Although his whereabouts were unknown to us in consideration for his personal safety, he had sent us regular reports.  However, we regret to inform you that for the past three months, there has been no word from Mr. Black, and that the Order is now forced to consider him lost to us.  Your new contact is now your direct superior.  Unfortunately, secrecy prohibits V. from contacting you in person.  Nonetheless, he will be in touch. Please accept our sincere condolences for your loss._

The letter was unsigned, but stamped with the now familiar seal of seven stars.  Harry's hand convulsed, but he quashed the impulse to crumple the message.  He glanced quickly around to see if anyone was taking an interest in what had arrived for him.  Hermione was hastily placing several letters addressed from her mum in her satchel, and Ron continued to shovel food in his mouth with gleeful abandon.  Dean, who sat next to Ron, was thumbing excitedly through the latest issue of _Babes and Broomsticks_ as Neville and Seamus peered over his shoulder.  Harry put the message carefully in his pocket; he would tell Ron and Hermione about it later.

Harry returned to his breakfast when a hush gradually fell over the hall.  He raised his head to see a lone owl flying in elegantly and silently.  He was at once struck by its unusually large size, and then, as it winged its way closer to the Gryffindor table, its color.  Although it was roughly the same size as a Great Horned owl, it was like no Great Horned Harry had ever seen.  Black feathers covered the bird from wingtip to wingtip, but it was not simply black; the bird's dark plumage was more like an entire absence of color, a well of midnight where nothing existed.  And although Harry was quite sure no one in his House owned an owl of that kind, the unfamiliar bird fixed its glowing yellow eyes upon them.  Murmurs arose from everyone in the Great Hall.  Harry gazed up at the owl, tracing its trajectory and hoping it would change course to swoop down upon the Slytherin table.

But he was wrong. The mysterious owl dropped low and deposited its letter before a terrified Neville. The students held their breath and watched as the owl flew back the way it came.  Neville gingerly picked up the envelope, not knowing what to expect.

"At least it's not a Howler," Dean said lightly, but his half-hearted attempt at humour fell flat in the eerily silent Hall.

"Open it, Neville," quavered Hermione, visibly shaken.  She leaned across the table, her eyes bright with fear and curiousity.  

Neville turned it over.  "It has the Ministry seal," he said nervously.

Harry glanced at Hermione and both shared a grave look. 

Harry held his breath as Neville opened the envelope slowly, the jagged sound of tearing parchment echoing in the quiet breakfast hall.   Harry saw that his friend's fingers trembled as he drew out the small card within.

"Why don't you read it aloud, mate?" Seamus asked, his voice small against the silent mass of students.

Neville's voice shook as he read the carefully scripted and neat handwriting on the page.

_"Dear Mr. Longbottom,_

_It has come to our attention you have used the word "Inconceivable" incorrectly at 6:02 on the evening of Friday the 16th.  We do not think it means what you think it means.  Desist, or more serious actions will be taken."_

Laughter broke out across the hall, releasing the tension that had been building since the arrival of the black owl.  Harry made a point to look at the Slytherin table, at Malfoy in particular, and he noted that there was a mocking smirk on the blond's face.

Harry turned his attention back to Neville, who sat rather blankly with a stupefied expression on his face, his mouth opened into a gaping O.  The card fluttered to the floor, where Hermione snatched it up. 

"There is no signature," she remarked, turning the missive over, "but the card reads the '_Department of the Misuse of the Word Inconceivable' _across the bottom."

"Rather silly, don't you think?" asked Ron, chuckling with the others while stuffing his face.  Hermione frowned and silenced him with a glare.

A sickening feeling began to spread throughout Harry's stomach, and suddenly, he found himself feeling ill.  He jabbed at his porridge morosely, and then shoved the bowl away. 

"Harry," Hermione began.

"We need to talk," he interrupted.  He turned to rise.  "Today.  Hermione, Ron, meet me in the common room after dinner." He left his Housemates, ignoring their puzzled looks.  He knew his behaviour was being erratic, but he found himself not caring.  He threw open the Hall doors and stalked off towards the dormitory, where perhaps he could lie down on his bed and hope the nauseated feeling would pass away.

*************************************

"Ooh, look, Draco," Pansy purred, "You got something from your father."

Draco glanced down at his plate where a letter bearing the Malfoy coat of arms rested.  In the wake of Longbottom's Ministry warning, he had not noticed when his eagle owl gently dropped a letter before him.

"Well, aren't you going to open it?" Pansy persisted, edging towards Draco to look over his shoulder.

Draco ignored her.  He fingered the letter, guessing at its contents.  It was indeed, a letter from his father; he recognized the spidery scrawl immediately.  He knew better than to expect a casual, cheerful letter full of sentimental well-wishing.  Lucius Malfoy was not that sort of man.

"Draco?" Pansy asked, peering earnestly into his face, her eyes eager.  He glanced at her.  He knew exactly was thoughts were running through her head, what emotions were lurking in her dark eyes.  She presumed that this letter from his father contained information about the Rising, information she sought only to protect herself against the fate of her own father.

But Draco knew otherwise.

Sensing his annoyance, Goyle, who was seated to Draco's right, shoved Pansy out of the way with a grunt.  She glared at his goon, and returned to her seat on the other side of the table. 

"Fine," she pouted noisily.  "I just hope it is _good_ mail."  Her words were pointed at Draco, but he studiously avoided looking at her, mastering his annoyance.

Hesitantly, he lifted the envelope from his plate and opened it slowly, knowing it was not "good" mail.  His father never sent "good" mail.

_Draco,_

_There comes a time in the life of every boy when he must take up the work of his father and enter into the full honour of the family.  Your eighteenth birthday approaches, when you will come into your rights as the heir to the Malfoy estate.  You know what this inheritance entails.  You know what your duties are.  You know what I expect of you, what we expect of you.  The Malfoy name is not a charge to be taken lightly.  _

_I trust you understand this.  Any failure on your part, Draco, and you shall cease to be one of us.  The Malfoy name will not continue in you and you shall be cast from us, forgotten and lost._

_You know of what I speak.  And I hope that you are fully prepared to obey our whims unquestioningly._

_You are expected at the Manor during the holidays.  We are due for a talk.  Times are changing.  Our world is changing, and for the better, we trust.  And you will do your part to make it so._

_We expect it of you._

_Your father,_

_Lucius Malfoy_

"What is it?  What is it, Draco?" Pansy asked, leaving across the remains of breakfast.  "Is it a good letter?"  

He raised his grey eyes to meet hers over the parchment, a cynical smile gracing his lips.  Pansy faltered and his smile hardened.  He glanced back at his letter, reading the words that Draco knew would shape his entire life.  The role, he as the Malfoy heir, knew that he would have to play, although it was never said, never mentioned.  There was nothing he could do to avoid it, no road that would circumvent his destiny.

It was coming.

Draco cast his eyes about the Great Hall, where students from all four Houses were gathered, eating, chatting, and living.  The heat of his stare brought their attentions immediately, but all averted their eyes from his.  Pride glittered along his smile, hardening his vulnerable heart.

They hated him; they _all_ hated him. They hated his wealth, his looks, his name. They hated what he was, _who_ he was. A Malfoy. 

A soft laugh escaped his lips as he traced the Latin inscription along his coat of arms.

_Oderint dum metuant._

Let them hate, so long as they fear.

He raised his eyes again, smiling with satisfaction as the two Hufflepuff first years he had barked at that morning skittered quickly out of his sight.

Was this not his father's gift to him?  His legacy?  His name?  His duty?

He turned to Pansy, and gently put down the letter with cold, trembling fingers.

"Yes, Pansy," he said.  "Yes, it was a good letter."

**************************************

"What was that about?" Ron asked Hermione after Harry had gone.

"What was what about?" she asked lightly, picking at her toast.

"You know bloody well what I'm talking about, Hermione!" he said, reddening with irritation.  Hermione always protected Harry, always made excuses for him, always ignored the fact that the Boy Who Lived had _changed_ since their childhood.  "One moment he's blowing cold, the next, he's blowing hot!"

Hermione put her fork down on her plate and looked Ron directly in the eye.  "Be glad at least he's taking the initiative now, Ron."

"Sod his initiative," Ron shot back.  Hermione glanced over his shoulder and he knew that she was concerned about what the others had heard.  He turned to see Neville, Seamus, Dean, and Parvati surveying the two of them quizzically.  He rose from the table and steered Hermione away from the other Gryffindors.

"Forget his initiative," Ron said, lowering his voice.  "I'm asking for some semblance of _sanity_.  All year he's been holed up in our dorms, wallowing in self-pity and misery.  And now, all of a sudden, he's become the great leader of our division in the Order?"

"Remember, he has a different charge placed upon him than the rest of us," Hermione reminded him gravely.

"Oh, and it's only _today_ that he's starting to take that up?" Why couldn't she see?  Why did she always cover Harry's tracks?

"I don't understand you, Ronald Weasley," Hermione snapped, her brown eyes sparkling with indignation.  "Why can't you be content with what you have?  What would you do if you were in his shoes?  Would you be willing to sacrifice all that he has had to give up this year?"

Ron longed to lash out at Hermione, an irrational wave of frustration and sense of injustice threatening to smother him.  She had a point, but the illogical side of Ron protested against her inherent instinct to protect Harry.  Harry, Harry, it was always Harry!

"It was his choice!" Ron growled.  "He chose that path himself.  You know that."

Hermione crumpled.  "I don't know, Ron," she said in a defeated voice, "I just don't know."  Her shoulders slumped.  "But no matter how he's acting, it's our duty to support him.  Even if…even if it isn't reciprocated."

Ron stepped back in surprise at the quaver he heard lying beneath Hermione's words.  A cold chill washed over him.

"Hermione," Ron asked, placing his hand on her shoulder and peering into her face, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

She smiled tremblingly and gently shrugged his hand off.  "What are you talking about?  I'm fine."

Ron sighed.  And they had come to a full circle: Hermione in her obstinate denial and Ron in his reluctant role as comforter.  The futility of his frustration struck him full force.  Bringing a smile to his face with effort, he reassured his best friend.

"Well, I suppose he can't skive off a meeting that he's called himself, eh?"

"Exactly," Hermione said.

To Ron, the word seemed fraught with irony.

**********************************************

Draco sat in the common room alone, gathering the air about him as if he were its sovereign. The letter remained in his lap, opened but face down. He stared into space, forgetting about the weight of words pressing upon him as the dream from the night before came rushing back. He closed his eyes, feeling heavy with unwanted emotion. He saw the abandoned field, the red horizon, the ruined cities…a forlorn vision of the future.

And yet, there was a sense of shame that lingered. Draco could not shake the feeling, nor did he understand it. The fallen cities were not his fault. Potter's----

He wrenched himself away from the slippery slope of his thoughts. A flash of irritation flared within him.

Potter.

What had happened last night? All he could remember was a whirl of colours and fists, cracked glasses and green eyes, an unbearable feeling of tightness, finally sending Potter away. His hands gripped the arms of the green overstuffed easy chair unconsciously. Draco cursed his own weakness. Damn Gryffindor hadn't even finished the chore that he had set out for him. Because Draco couldn't stand to be dominated by him.

Weakness. He detested it…and it afflicted him as surely as it did the others.

He was still lost in the feverish dreamscape when Pansy approached him from behind.

"So…" she purred, sliding her hands down from the top of the chair to rest on his shoulders. He tensed, waiting for her next move.

Draco hated Pansy the most when she attempted to be charming. He ignored her, pretending that he could not see her eyes focused greedily on the letter in his lap.

"Draco?"

He steeled himself against her invasive hands.

"Draco."

If nothing else, Pansy was very persistent.

"It did not mention _you_," he burst out spitefully at last. "You presume that my father even _cares_ about you."

But her hands did not move from his chest. He could feel her smirk behind his head. "There is no need to get touchy, Draco. I am doing this for your own good."

"And to further your own ends, Parkinson."

"Nobody said a Slytherin did things entirely out of charity, Draco. You know things I don't know. I know things your father doesn't know."

The words _I have nothing to hide_ died away in Draco's throat. He felt cold.

"I want to help you, Draco," she murmured, her voice soft and strangely vulnerable. "And in turn, you can help me. Help my father. Help my family."

He stood up sharply, overturning the chair in with his abrupt movements, sending it clattering against the stone floor of the Slytherin dungeon. He felt dozens of pairs of eyes focused on the two of them.

"Don't you get it, Pansy?" he shouted. "Nobody cares about you. _Nobody_. I suggest you stop wasting your time caring about yourself. And while you're at it, you can stop caring about me. I don't want you, Parkinson."

Her face faltered and Draco turned on his heel, walking away from her. Although he did not give Pansy a second glance, he did not need to see her to know that she was smiling at his retreating figure.

**********************************************

He wished the world would stop spinning.

Harry arrived at this dormitory, a bit breathless from having run up so many stairs, but grateful to be alone. He stumbled toward his unmade bed and sank into the pillows face down. He lay there for some time, wondering if he could stand to smother himself in his bed linen, but within a few minutes he turned himself over. He brought the letter to his face, feeling the weight of its message, the thick, official parchment in his hand. Suddenly, the letter felt unbearably heavy. Harry let his hand drop, feeling the missive slip from his numb fingertips onto the floor.

He curled himself into a fetal position and lay on his side, feeling as though he should at least shed tears for his erstwhile godfather, but his green eyes remained obstinately dry. Instead of loss, he felt only anger, a sick punch to his stomach that caused bile to rise up in his throat.

How dare they? How dare they send him that letter, filled with nothing, offering nothing but mere routine condolences?

Harry curled tighter into a ball on his bed, doubled over in defence against the angry blows raining on his head.

The fuckers.

How could they possibly treat this in such a blasé manner? They offered him another contact, a direct superior in hopes that this unknown man might substitute Sirius in his life.

Fuck that.

They knew nothing, those damn bastards.

Did they know the emotional turmoil he went through the previous year? He had resented the Order even then, the nameless, faceless wizards that took Sirius away from him. Each reply his godfather sent him had grown shorter and shorter, more harried, more urgent. Each successive letter came further and further apart until finally, it never came at all.

At least Harry had Dumbledore then. His mentor reassured Harry that Sirius was still alive, but his contact with Harry would be severely restricted from that point on. But the twinkle no longer shone in Dumbledore's blue eyes, and Harry knew that the great wizard himself was worried.

Not a month after that conversation, Dumbledore himself became stricken with his mysterious illness.

The bile seared Harry's throat and he sat up abruptly. He wrestled with himself, the desire to mount a full-scale rescue mission struggling against his self-imposed depression. Harry closed his eyes. He knew it was a lost cause; not even his superiors knew the whereabouts of his godfather, yet the Boy Who Lived roared within him.

He slammed his fist into his pillow. He hated them, he hated them, he hated them. His mind flashed back to the night before, when he and Malfoy had fought on Rochester's classroom floor, and suddenly, his anger and frustration increased tenfold. He began pummeling the pillow in earnest, imagining Malfoy's voice taunting at his ear.

_What are you going to do about it, Potter? St. Potter the Perfect, who can't even be bothered to save his own godfather. More like St. Potter the Pusillanimous---_

"That's not true, Harry grunted between punches. "That's not true, that's not true, that's not true---"

The pillow exploded in a shower of feathers, covering Harry in a cloud of white. He continued to abuse the destroyed object, his fists landing wildly all over the bed, catching his knuckles on the headboard, the wall, the mattress…

Harry stopped when he realized that he was crying. He raised his bruised and bleeding hands to his face, gently touching the moisture on his cheeks in a reverent manner.

_Are you happy now, Malfoy?_ he thought. _Are you happy now?_

Footsteps answered his unvoiced question.

Startled, Harry turned to the dormitory door, his heart thudding in his chest, his palms sweating as though the Head Boy himself was coming to answer his summons.

The door opened.

"Harry?"

"Ron," Harry said, his shoulders slumping. He suddenly felt exhausted and collapsed back onto his bed.

"Harry, can we talk?"

Harry didn't reply.

Disregarding the awkward silence that had fallen between the two boys, Ron forged on ahead. "I just want to talk about, well, you, Harry. You've been off lately. One minute you're social and things are like the way they were before…" Ron trailed off, but bravely continued on. "But the next, you're holing yourself away like some ferret afraid of being trod on." Harry turned over so that his back was to Ron and traced his fingers absentmindedly over the letter he had dropped to the floor earlier.

"We're supposed to help you, Harry, me and Hermione. But you'd rather sit up here and do nothing. You won't even talk to me anymore. And Herm's upset about something."

Harry stiffened.

"She hasn't said anything, but I know. Harry, if you'd just talk to her, talk to me, you know, like the way things used to be…"

Harry picked up the letter and examined the seal.

He heard Ron sigh. It was full of sadness, regret, and resignation.

"You won't talk? Fine, I'll see you later, mate."

The door closed with a soft click and Harry felt something shut between himself and Ron. He traced the seal on the letter.

Seven stars.

Stars…

He got up. Harry contemplated running after Ron, but knew that was useless. The urge to cry to a friend had been burned out of him long ago.

Stars…

It was time to escape again.

**********************************************

Now, if someone wanted to hide something where it could not be easily found, where would then put it?

He scanned the room with a practiced eye, a slightly sinister twist gracing his lips.

Of course. How had he not seen it before?

"What are you doing?"

Rochester whirled around, caught off guard. Standing in the doorway was Professor Watson with a frown on his usually genial face.

"I might be asking you the same question, Daniel," he said. He surreptitiously palmed the small metallic sphere and concealed it within his robes.

"I was looking for Professor Flitwick," said the younger professor. "I told him that I needed a charm to cure warts. Isabella and I are going out on Monday."

Rochester raised an eyebrow.

"Are you now? Where to?"

Watson flushed. "No place in particular. I offered to take her around Hogsmeade and buy her some things she wanted."

"I see. Well, I was looking for Flitwick myself. He's not in here, boy. Why don't you and I head out into the corridors and find him? He may be in his office."

"Oh, well, you see, Professor Flitwick said that he might leave it on his desk----"

"There was nothing on his desk, Daniel. Why don't we just go?"

Watson complied, after one last bewildered look around the room. Rochester steered the young man out the door, giving Flitwick's room a quick once-over before leaving.

He had to be careful. He was almost caught this time. Rochester surveyed the young professor critically. Did he know? Could he have guessed? Or was it just coincidence that had brought Daniel Watson to Flitwick's room at that exact moment? He pushed it aside, now was not the time to ponder such things. He had a schedule to follow. His superiors were waiting for his reply.

He was conscious of the weight of the small object in his pocket as he and Watson walked side by side.

**********************************************

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound of Draco's smart shoes echoed loudly in the empty corridors as he made his prefect rounds after supper.

Draco often wondered if prefect rounds were now merely a formality. He hardly ever saw anyone wandering about the grounds after the sun went down. An ominous air settled over the castle, an oppressive fog that chilled even Draco's bones. Students shuffled to and from classes, speaking in hushed voiced, avoiding his eyes, turning their heads away, as though they blamed him for the change in atmosphere.

_Nothing is different, you fools,_ Draco thought. _Nothing._

Nothing.

But everything was different. The power that his father had always backed him with had turned on him, a double-edged sword of both security and infamy. Classes were run as they always were. The Ministry only extended its hand deeper into the pockets of the school, digging out the dirt and lint that did not belong at Hogwarts.

Yet everything _felt_ different. Professors encouraged their pupils to retire early to their common rooms, to travel in groups of three, to avoid being alone. What for? There was no reason to take such precautions, none at all. By some unspoken, unseen signal, the entire school had turned into an asylum, its wards locked by the foreboding in their eyes. What was it they feared so? It wasn't as it was in Draco's third year, when that criminal Sirius Black had escaped from Azkaban. There had been real danger then.

Didn't they know?

His father was behind their prosperity, their safety. Draco was behind it all. His father and his father's men were responsible for the well-being of the wizard world.

Then why was there always hatred behind their eyes?

Composure marked the Malfoy family. They prided themselves on _composure_ and _comportment_ and other completely ridiculous words that were bred into each and every one of them since childhood. They held straight faces even when Agellius Malfoy was eaten by his own illegal Norwegian Ridgeback, when Nero Malfoy was condemned to die by the Consistorial Wizarding Court in 1057 for practicing the Dark Arts. They had a family name to protect, to look after, to uphold.

Then why did he feel so vulnerable? Draco felt unraveled; if someone could only see him the way he saw himself, they could just reach out and pull one of the hanging threads to leave him broken.

The sun was setting, sending its fiery rays through the ceiling-high westward facing windows in the hallway he was patrolling. Draco paused under their solemn arches, feeling the sun's wan warmth on his face and thinking it was strangely beautiful. It was like the end of the world, red light tinting his fair hair, pale skin and robes. It was like being bathed in a tide of blood. The red light…the dream. A swarm of bees raged in Draco's head as he fought against the resurgence of memory. He brought his hands to his temples, pressing them hard to drive dream from him. Draco rested his clammy forehead against the bloody-crimson windowpanes.

"Get out of my fucking head," he whispered softly.

As he struggled helplessly against the pressure behind his eyes, Draco heard a noise behind him, close. A swirl of black, a quick movement of the wrist, and Draco turned with his wand at the ready.

"Who's there?" Had someone seen him in his moment of weakness? "I heard you. You should be in your common room by now." A curious feeling of _déjà senti_ overtook Draco. On an impulse, Draco brought his left hand around in a wide arc around him. The feel of something softer than silk and the sharp sound of an indrawn breath took him completely by surprise.

For a breathless moment, neither boy said a word.

For the second time in his life, Draco saw the disembodied head of Harry Potter floating before him. 

_Draco suddenly caught sight of the red-haired Weasel. His pale face split in a malevolent grin._

_"What are you doing, Weasley?"_

Draco looked up at the crumbling house behind Weasley.

_"Suppose you'd love to live here, wouldn't you, Weasley? Dreaming about having your own bedroom? I heard your family all sleep in one room---is that true?" Draco took malicious pleasure in seeing that red-haired git turn crimson all over._

_Weasley lunged forward as though he were going to attack Draco, but seemed checked by something. Draco frowned momentarily before continuing to taunt the other boy._

_"We were just discussing your friend Hagrid," he said to Weasley. "Just trying to imagine what he's saying to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. D'you think he'll cry when they cut off his hippogriff's---"_

_SPLAT._

_Draco's head jerked forward as something hit him; his silver-blond hair was suddenly dripping in muck._

_"What the----?"_

_Weasley had to hold onto the fence to keep himself standing, he was laughing so hard. Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle spun stupidly on the spot, staring wildly around, Draco trying to wipe his hair clean._

_"What was that? Who did that?"_

_There was no one there._

_"Very haunted up here, isn't it?" said Weasley, with the air of one commenting on the weather. Draco's hatred for the red-haired boy burned in his stomach._

_Crabbe and Goyle were looking scared. Their bulging muscles were no use against ghosts. Draco was staring madly around at the deserted landscape._

_SPLATTER._

_Crabbe and Goyle caught some this time. Goyle hopped furiously on the spot, trying to rub it out of his small, dull eyes._

_"It came from over there!" said Draco, wiping his face, and staring at an empty spot, but convinced that someone was there._

_Crabbe blundered forward, his long arms outstretched like a zombie. A stick flew out of nowhere, striking him across the back. Draco became even more enraged as Crabbe did a kind of pirouette in midair, trying to see who had thrown it. Convinced it was Weasley who threw it, he ran towards him, but tripped. Suddenly, Harry Potter's head appeared out of nowhere, floating in midair._

_For an instant, Draco met his eyes, before realizing just who it was who had thrown the mud at them._

_"ARRRRRGH!" he yelled, pointing straight at Potter before vacating the scene. His father would be hearing about this. Who knew Potter had an Invisibility Cloak?_

"What is it, Potter? Come to fling more mud at me?" Draco asked sharply.

But the space before him was empty and there was no answer.

**********************************************

Ron couldn't help fidgeting.

He eyed the slowly setting sun out of the corner of his eye, squirming uncomfortably as he and Hermione waited for Harry to arrive. Hermione was calmly, methodically working away at whatever it was that lay across her lap.

For the fifteenth time that night, Ron glanced at the huge grandfather clock that stood in the southwest corner of their common room. The hands had barely moved since he checked it last. Hurry up, Harry, he thought. But as Ron glanced at the sinking sun, a cold disappointment fell over him like the approaching night. Whether or not Harry showed, nothing was going to change. It was going to be like how it was now: Hermione working and studying, Ron sitting and waiting, and both of them fighting against the absence that was Harry.

Ron flicked his eyes to the one best friend that he felt he had left. Her face was set in an obstinate glower, fixed on some point in front of her. The silence pressed on him and Ron felt obligated to speak.

"Well, at least we know he can't skive off a meeting he called," Ron said, repeating his earlier words.

But who was he reassuring, Hermione or himself?

However, good ole Herm didn't answer him; instead, her fingers continued to absentmindedly dog-ear the various sheets of parchment in her lap. Ron cleared his throat uncomfortably, fidgeting slightly on the couch, glancing at the clock again.

Where was he? Harry had said, "After dinner." Well, it was well after supper in the Great Hall and their housemates had already gone up to retire for the night. He heaved a sigh and turned his attention to his other best friend. Hermione was now mechanically scanning through and underlining some passages in a few leaves of parchment. Ron decided to press his luck.

"What's that?" he asked, nudging her a bit playfully.

She didn't take up her cue.

"Research," she answered shortly.

"On what?"

"Something."

Ron frowned. First Harry, and now Hermione. Nobody wanted to talk anymore. What the fuck was happening to their inseparable Trio? Hermione's brown curls hid the expression on her face so he couldn't read her thoughts.

"Is it something that we should know about?" he asked her.

"I'll tell you when Harry gets here."

Ron suppressed the urge to shout out, "Sod Harry." He waited for the immediate guilty reaction that accompanied such mutinous thoughts and was surprised when none came.

"Listen," he ventured, trying anything to destroy the suffocating silence that was beginning to muffle even this thoughts, "You're not upset about this morning, are you? At breakfast you seemed a bit, I dunno, tired or something---"

"I'm fine," Hermione said tersely.

He shut up. Sometimes it was no use trying.

Ron glanced at the common room clock again, sighing and counting the minutes as they passed. Suddenly, there was a ripple in the air and in a moment, his absent friend emerged from thin air. Ron felt a slight jolt; it had been ages since he had seen Harry appear like that.

"Brought out the old cloak again, eh?" Ron said wryly, unable to hide the wistfully nostalgic tone in his voice.

"I needed it."

Harry spoke bluntly, almost angrily, cutting through the bandages Ron had wrapped around the wounds of their relationship, effectively ruining any attempt Ron could have made in beginning any sort of healing process. He bit his lip and fell back into the well-worn couches.

Sometimes it really wasn't worth trying.

Had it really come to this? Having pleasant memories soiled by Harry's moroseness? Ron frowned. Fine, if Harry wanted to be that way, he'd let him. He wasn't going to sit back and make excuses for him, unlike some _other_ people he knew. Ron refrained from giving Hermione a sidelong glance.

No, he was going to give his oldest friend more credit than that.

"I don't expect either of you to understand the way things are," Harry began. Both boys noticed the tense set of Hermione's shoulders. Ron knew how much she wanted to say something, how much she wanted Harry to understand how he needed them. Ron frowned again; no, she wanted Harry to understand how much he needed _her_.

But she wouldn't say anything. To think she would was ridiculous.

"But..." Ron prompted when he saw that Hermione wasn't going to.

"But I need your opinions. Your help...I suppose," Harry finished.

Ron couldn't help but be taken aback. Taken aback at the surprising clarity in his old friend's expression, and the focused, almost fanatical energy behind his every movement. Ron supposed the same despondency that had pushed him and Hermione to the background of the epic tragedy called _Harry Potter's Life_ was still there, but it had changed somehow. He studied his friend closely. Harry was no longer awash in insecurity and dazed melancholy. Mentally, Ron compared the boy he encountered earlier in their dorm to the man that stood before them now, tall with resolve. Were they indeed the same person? How long was this going to last?

"Help with what, Harry?" Hermione asked quietly. Harry looked at his feet, his eyebrows furrowed. Without seeing it, Ron knew that Harry's mouth would be set in a firm line. Hermione continued to dog-ear the pages of her research in her lap, over and over and over again.

"Bloody hell, Harry," Ron said, unable to take the tension between them any longer. "What is it?"

Ron half-expected a glare, but there was none forthcoming. Instead, Harry sat down in a chair across from him and Hermione and pulled a small envelope from his pocket. Hermione took in a sharp breath. Upon closer inspection, Ron realised that it was same envelope that Harry had received earlier that morning and had refused to show anyone. Harry handed it to Hermione, noting the slight quaking of his hands. Hermione gazed into Harry's hands, searching for something before taking the letter.

"Is everything all right, Harry?"

"Oh, everything's fantastic as always, Herm," Harry said, a slight bite in his words now. "Read the letter."

Ron fidgeted uncomfortably, resisting the urge to read over Hermione's shoulder. Instead, he watched Harry. He was full of nervous energy: absently picking at the threads on his thinning jumper, running his hands through his already messy hair, bring his hands to his face to push at his glasses. Ron noticed that Harry simply could not keep his hands still, running over his threadbare jumper, passing over the invisibility cloak still within his grasp, passing over his face. His green eyes were focused on some point in front of him. Ron had the prickly feeling that Harry was starting at _something_, something that was most definitely not in the room.

Ron jumped slightly when Hermione spoke at last.

"I have no idea who this 'V' is that they are talking about, Harry," she said, frowning and setting the letter on the table. "I don't recognize this particular seal either. It is not the one the Order normally uses."

"_Normal_," Harry said, derision putting an edge to his already tight voice. "I don't think it's 'normal' for them to communicate with me in this way, Herm. A vague letter. With a mysterious correspondent. I mean, we _know_ the people in the Order!"

Ron picked up the parchment from the table. He scanned it quickly. Harry's anger and withdrawn behaviour was understandable now; after all, the same sadness and inevitability of Sirius had touched them all. Yet it didn't seem the same. He looked at Harry, still fingering the invisibility cloak. There was a tense expression on his face that seemed out of place and suddenly Ron felt miles away from his best friend. The gulf between then had been widening ever since their fifth year, but it was only now Ron realised truly how large it was. There was something in Harry's face that Ron didn't recognise and something that he could never know.

"We don't know everyone, Harry," Ron reminded him. "My parents mentioned there being others, other people than those at Siriu---12 Grimmauld, I mean."

Harry sighed and dropped the cloak. "They want something from me," he said hoarsely, raising deadened eyes to Ron.

_They want you to step up to your responsibilities against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,_ Ron thought.

A silence fell over the trio as the weight of Harry's words was felt by all.

"I'll keep the letter for now," Hermione said, breaking the tension. She picked up the parchment from the table and put it with her other papers. She composed herself and continued. "I will look up the star seal and see where it comes from. In the meantime, I suggest that we simply look out for more letters from V."

"From a guy we don't know, who uses a symbol we've never seen before?" Ron was suspicious. "Sounds awfully dodgy to me."

Silence fell over the trio once more. Ron fidgeted again. There was a time when words flew between them quickly and easily, but those days seemed long gone. They sat in the uncomfortable silence a few minutes longer, each waiting for the other to say something, to transport them back into a better time. 

"We're all so busy," said Hermione finally. Ron laughed, a harsh, bitter sound in the dead air of the common room.

"Herm, you're the only busy one of us here," he said, wondering if he envied her productivity or not. "They've cancelled Quidditch and all those things Harry and I used to do, and the only class he attends is detention." Ron couldn't disguise the anger in his voice. He cleared his throat. "Where have you _been_ anyway? I don't even think I see you in the library anymore."

Hermione turned to him with perfect composure. "I am still working on that research project."

A ripple of revulsion curled through Ron's body. "Ugh… with _Snape_," he muttered, but stopped when Hermione glared at him.

"Is there even any hope?" Harry said, his voice hollow and monotonous. "Or are you spending hours in the dungeon finding a cure for someone who has already left us?"

"We are doing our best, Harry," Hermione replied. After a slight paused, she continued. "Professor Snape is doing his best, and he is our greatest asset right now."

Ron made retching motions in the background; Snape was just so filthy, so slimy. That greasy-haired git had made their lives miserable since their first year. The few hours a week he spent in Potions were more than he could stand. How could Hermione spend so much time down there? Unbidden, a mental image of Hermione sprang into his head, lank and sallow-skinned like Snape after years brewing Potions.

Hermione shot him another death glare. "I had my mum look into a few things at home on Muggle medicine for me," she explained to Harry, "and I think I may have a few more insights on Dumbledore's condition. It's not a Muggle malady, per sé, but it does bear remarkable similarities to a basic Muggle stroke. It is possible---possible that someone used a curse that mocks the symptoms of an illness resulting from age to throw us off track."

"The Ministry."

Harry could not have said those two words with more force if he had pummeled the table with his fist. Even Hermione looked startled.

"Harry…that's not wise…after Neville's letter this morning---"

"Fuck the Ministry," Harry retorted, "So what if they are listening? If all they are going to do is send out little notices in matching stationary we've seen worse."

"_Harry,_" Hermione said firmly. "Caution is never misplaced. We would be wise not to make assumptions we can't prove."

"Harry doesn't _need_ proof, Hermione, remember?" Ron surprised even himself with his sarcasm. Both Harry and Hermione turned towards him, shock and surprise dancing in their eyes.

He gazed at Harry for a long while, looking at his famous green eyes, still filled that emotion he did not recognise.

Turning away from Harry, he looked Hermione, whose grave brown eyes considered him solemnly. Ron closed his own eyes and sighed. No matter how hard they tried, they kept pushing each other away. All three of them were guilty.

"I'm going to bed," he said, knowing the announcement was abrupt, but unable to take the mental pressure any longer. Hermione and Harry weren't fooling him. They didn't ask his opinions; they didn't need him there to argue with each other. Let them have their conversation without him; he had better things to do.

As he ran up the stairs to the dormitory, he didn't hear the silence behind him through the rush in his own head.

**********************************************

He knew that the fourth floor corridor was clear, but Draco couldn't help but cross the stone hallway one last time. He chuckled sardonically; who exactly was he expecting to catch at this hour?

Draco had often been called a sadistic bastard by many others, but now he had the sneaking suspicion that he might also be a masochist. Why else would he be patrolling these abandoned corridors for the fleeting glimpse of Harry Potter? The bastard was gone, he had fled from him swathed in his comfortable invisibility, no doubt back in his common room by now. Probably sulking about, imagining having his face plastered on all the Death Eater's Most Wanted posters. Yet the masochistic side of Draco's nature reared its perverse head as the Head Boy walked through the silent halls, hoping he could catch Potter, this time engaged in some illicit, preferably illegal activity.

He scoffed at himself.

"Why?"

The word echoed in the empty hall and a thousand broken pieces of his voice hurled themselves back at him, taunting his feverish state of mind. Why indeed? Finding Potter would only serve to throw them back together, with Potter serving some mundane chore as he watched on, torn between boredom and hatred.

Draco clenched his fists, digging his nails into he palm of his hands. He lingered in their sharp pain, which served to cast thoughts of Potter out of his head. Draco could still see him, his eyes, those green eyes full of something other than blank acceptance in those brief moments they had faced each other in this very corridor. He dug his nails harder into his palm, thinking of blood, of a blood-red sky, of crumbled ruins, of Harry's eyes---

Draco released his hands. He brought his hands up towards his face, gazing at the crescent indentations that punctured the smooth ivoury-fine lines of his palms with red fury.

_Pain is my pleasure,_ he thought, smirking slightly.

The red on his hands faded, and the horrific dream vision that had flooded his senses slowly bled away, yet the pool of disturbed emotions remained. Pain became pleasure, adoration became distaste, hatred became obsession.

A soft rustle caressed his year and he turned swiftly, thinking to catch a glimpse of a shimmering cloak, a ripple in the hallway, something that would betray Potter's presence.

But the corridor was barren, and Draco continued on his nightly scour of Hogwarts. The tap of his footsteps became more and more impatient as he opened classroom doors. The more he sped his footsteps, the louder his shoes beat on the flagstones, the clearer the vision of Harry in his mind became. One by one, Draco shut each door with a resounding finality, ending his futile efforts with a cacophony of sound.

He came on the Astronomy room and placed his hand upon the handle, but hesitated to open it. Draco's mind flashed back to the encounter with Rochester the night before: the furtive look upon the professor's face and his brusque manner. With some trepidation, Draco pushed open the door.

It was unlocked.

Draco ventured inside a few paces and sat at Potter's desk. What was it like being the famous Harry Potter? Draco settled further into Harry's chair, imagining himself to be the Boy Who Lived. What was it like to be loved instead of hated, admired instead of hated wherever he went? To have no destiny, no family, no honour to uphold? A wave of envy washed over Draco; Potter's life was a blank slate, upon which he could write his future whilst Draco's was graven in stone by the hands of generations past.

He rubbed idly at an inkstain on Potter's desk. Draco knew how to be feared, how to command awe, how to be a Malfoy. He knew duty, and honour, and privilege.

He had all that he could ask for.

All but what he wanted most.

He wanted whatever indefinable aura that Harry possessed, to bathe and bask in it, to make that ethereal quality his own, the ability to be admired, esteemed...loved.

He wanted to be loved.

The Astronomy room was dark, illuminated only by the silvery light of the moon cutting through the shadows that loomed over Draco's head. The Astronomy tower was one of the most unusual at Hogwarts in terms of its architecture; the east wall was lined with tall, thin windows that stretched from ceiling to floor, casting striped shadows across the floor whilst the other three walls jutted in at strange angles to accommodate the partially open-aired ceiling and midnight snoggers. Draco cast his eyes about the room, recalling the pairs he found in years past during his prefect rounds, uncompromising tangles of naked limbs, rumpled clothing, and sweaty faces. He closed his eyes and conjured visions of soft lips, rough hands, feathery hair, green eyes...

Draco blinked.

"Get out of my head, Potter," he said to the darkened corner.

But only mocking silence answered him.

Turning back to Potter's desk, Draco swept his hand lightly across its surface and then examined his hands. The inkstain had bled crimson onto his palms. He rubbed his fingers against his palm, trying to rub out the images within his mind, to have the crimson within his head fade alongside the red on his hands. Scrubbing Potter from his pores.

But the mark Potter had left on him seemed indelible. He stopped cleaning his hands. Did he really want to cast the Boy Who Lived away from him?

"Of course I do," he said aloud to the empty classroom. "Of course I do," he repeated softly.

Draco tried to fathom a world without his nemesis. Yet try as he might, Draco could not conjure up that elusive Paradise, a world without Harry Potter, a world without confused feelings. What was it exactly that Potter aroused in Draco? Was it hatred? Or pity? What was it that made Draco want to cover hillsides in flame when he walked by?

No, it wasn't pity. Potter had gotten what was coming to him. It was just and fair that he should have suffering in his life, that the "Hero" of their world learned that not everyone was going to bow before him.

He fingered the tender bruises on his face, hidden by magic, but there beneath the surface. He could feel the smarting places where Potter had hit him, although that entire evening was a blur to him.

He should have never let Potter touch him. Never in a million years should he have let him get so close. Draco's resistance crumbled and withered under the pain of what he was remembering, the coarse fabric of Potter's robes, Potter's arm wrapped around his neck in a headlock, feeling the other boys sweat and skin while clawing at his jumper. He wanted to forget, promised himself that it would never happen again. He would find someone else to do the detentions… someone else could deal with it and he would never look back.

Draco knew he would never say those words aloud, and he laughed bitterly to himself. There was nothing he looked forward to more than those afternoons making Potter bend to his will, nothing that excited him more than the prospect of seeing his old enemy laid low.

He stopped for a moment to look briefly out of a window, out into the black skies. His father's letter had brought his duty careening down out of the distant future into now, into the year he had been expecting to linger over. He had gotten everything he wanted, but now he wished to avoid paying the price for it. It was not to be helped, his father would be paid for the expense of an heir and Draco knew it. Somehow though, he found his victory hollow, knowing that the spirit of Harry Potter, his only real adversary for so long was already broken.

Harry Potter was part of him, and he didn't want that to change. For without Potter, Draco would not exist, would have no purpose.

It was more than that, it was more than his anger, but Draco pushed it aside again. Now was not the time, what with invisible Potters wandering the corridors and all. It was not the time to be tempted by feelings better repressed. Even as he repressed himself, though, he knew it.

Harry Potter was more than just an enemy.

Shame engulfed him and he changed his direction away from the dungeon level. He couldn't go back yet. He needed time to become himself again, and to convince himself he could hide this. 

**********************************************

The four metal spheres rested carelessly atop his desk, scarcely isolated from the general messiness elsewhere. 

It was the last of them; the last set of receptors he had to send to the Ministry. Voices murmured and whispered, filling the smoky darkness with muffled sound. He folded a paper around them and sealed it quickly. He did not like to hear the disembodied voices as they wove delicately about. It troubled him, vaguely. 

At least the job was done. Finally, _finally, _he could rest, and wait for his glorious return, for he would be rewarded handsomely for his betrayal. The Ministry paid its informants well, or so he had been told. It was nothing to him who lived or died. This school meant nothing to him. _Perhaps not nothing_... he thought quickly, glancing at the surly portrait over the smoking fire. The old man was always sleeping... but one had to be sure.

Caution. That is what his post demanded. He had been almost caught that day, and any failure would not be acceptable. Not in something as large as this. Not when futures hung upon his every footstep. He brought up a quill to hastily address the package. There could be no record... no one could find out. If anyone ever knew his secret thoughts, the fires, the glory written in silver and gold, he would be shamed.

They would kill him. His hands shook as the logs crumbled and sent bright sparks flying into the room. There was no turning back, though death might wait at the end. Sometimes he wondered if that was all both futures, both paths, could offer him. 

He laughed in fear, in glory, in hope. It was done, and he was alone. 

**********************************************

We sincerely apologise for how long it took to get this chapter out.  As we have moved on from high school into university life, it has been extremely difficult finding time to write.  However, this does not mean that we are discontinuing this fic!  We fully intend to finish, so we entreat your patience and continuing support.  Thanks.

-Vende and Aranel


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